


Without You

by Arianna



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, M/M, Missing Scenes & Epilogue, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianna/pseuds/Arianna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epilogue to Dead End on Blank Street. After heated words are exchanged, Blair moves out to get on with his life. Jim tries to get on with his own life. Then a serial killer from a cold case file strikes in Cascade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Janet, with thanks for her generous donation to Moonridge, and with gratitude for the beautiful quilt she made for the Auction. Janet’s request was that the story start with a confrontation that leads the lads to split up for a bit, and that the tale include some element in which Simon and Jim come to understand, through discussions with people at Rainier, that they have been badly underestimating Blair’s capabilities and taking him for granted.

By the time Ellison returned from his solitary vigil on the dock, the crime team was long gone, the ambulances having taken the body bags an hour before. Blair and Simon had leaned against the car, neither having much to say to the other as they waited for Jim to rejoin them. When he finally did appear around the side of the house, he walked with slow deliberation, as if he had to think about each step or risk falling. The grim expression on his face, and his downcast eyes, dissuaded any impulse his two friends might have had to offer support or condolences, so the three men simply climbed wordlessly into the sedan. No one spoke as Banks negotiated the streets back to the loft. Simon was unsure of what could be said to make what had happened bearable for Jim, and concluded that there was nothing, absolutely nothing that would make it easier, more endurable. Sandburg had seemed certain that his best detective and long time friend would be alright, given a bit of time, a little space, and Simon could only hope the kid was right. But, cutting a quick glance at the man sitting so rigidly beside him, he wasn’t sure how anyone could be okay after what that devious bitch had put Jim through. Hard enough if it had just been an acquaintance, some vague memory from the past, but Jim had loved the woman. Sighing, Simon shook his head as he reflected that, despite everything that had happened, it looked like maybe he still did. Pale and haggard, Jim sat brooding beside him, staring sightlessly into the darkness, oblivious to the world around him. The silence that blanketed them all was thick, like the heaviness of still air before the raw violence of a tempest.

Blair sat mutely in the back seat behind Simon, his fists clenched with futile anger and a deep, abiding sorrow. If Veronica wasn’t already dead and growing cold, he felt as if he could kill her with his bare hands for the pain she’d caused his partner. _God,_ he thought, dragging his gaze away from Jim’s wooden profile, _how does someone get so twisted, so cruel? How does someone use and betray love, Jim’s love, a love so hard won and precious, as she did? And for what? Money?_ He hated her for what she’d tried to do by framing Ellison, by almost destroying him. Perversely, he hated her, too, for dying, so that it could never be resolved, so that there would only be hollow emptiness in Jim’s heart where once he’d held her memories secure and cherished if tarnished by that other, earlier betrayal. Jim had been able to pretend she hadn’t really ever known how he’d felt, could stand aside for his good friend and wish the two of them well in their lives together – but how did he pretend his way out of this? How could Jim ever reconcile being so callously used? Ever repress his trust being abused by such wanton, ugly greed and malicious, murderous perfidy? Blair swallowed against the nausea cramping in his gut. God, he loathed her with a fierce, virulent, nearly blinding passion that burned through his taut body, every muscle straining against the need to lash out physically.

Shifting stiffly, trying to release some of his fury, Blair leaned against the doorframe and looked out and up toward the night sky. But he couldn’t see past the glare of the streetlamps, couldn’t see any stars or drifting clouds. He felt cut off from the universe, closed into a tiny dark box that was growing smaller and smaller so that it was difficult to breathe. How could Jim have loved someone like that? How could he not have seen, after she’d turned from his love years ago, that she was shallow and mean? Okay, sure, she was beautiful, but only on the outside. Inside, she’d been utterly depraved. Abandoning his search for the invisible sky and some sense of meaning in the universe, Blair turned his head to again study Jim’s profile. He wanted nothing so much as to have the right to take his partner into his arms, to hold him close and love him, so that Jim wouldn’t feel as if the world was empty or that love would only ever betray him – to offer some solace, so that Jim wouldn’t suffer such terrible anguish in the face of yet another heartbreaking loss.

Yeah, right, like the shelter of his embrace was anything Jim would ever want or accept. _Dream on, Sandburg,_ he taunted himself. _Not in a million years, not even as a friend, let alone a lover. Maybe, it’s time I just stopped dreaming the impossible dream and faced the facts of life. Jim’s never gonna love me like he loved her, or the others he’s loved and lost in his life. Hell, after this, it’d be a miracle if Jim ever found it possible to love anyone again, let alone his scruffy, male roommate._ He reflected then on how he’d tried to warn his partner about Veronica, and how Jim hadn’t wanted to hear it. How it had been easier, so much easier, for Jim to keep believing in her rather than trust his best friend’s judgment or accept his partner’s offers to help. Even knowing she’d betrayed him before, Jim had chosen to stand by her and had pushed Blair away, hadn’t wanted his support until … until he couldn’t deny the facts or the truth any longer. Veronica had finally stopped the game, and sneered her victory into his face. Then, and _only_ then, had Jim allowed him to help. But now, Jim had closed down again and didn’t look like he wanted anything from anyone. Morosely, Blair’s gaze dropped to his fists, and he thought again how very much he hated Veronica.

* * *

When Simon pulled up in front of the apartment, Ellison and Sandburg got out with muttered thanks. “I’ll see you in the morning,” Banks called just before the doors closed and the two men turned away, to walk toward the entrance.

Jim felt as if he’d been beaten by an expert, as if he’d gone the full fifteen rounds and been battered, bruised and bleeding, into the mat. Slowly, he plodded up the staircase, dimly aware of Blair climbing behind him, and wished he was alone so that he could nurse his wounded heart in solitude. His throat was thick with a lump he couldn’t seem to swallow, and his eyes felt rough and dry, too damned tired for the burn of tears. His chest was tight and he felt sick all the way to his soul. He hadn’t wanted to believe she was bad, that she’d killed her husband and deliberately set him up for the fall. Hadn’t wanted, even at the end, to believe she could kill him in cold blood. But she would have. He’d seen it in her eyes, just a trace of regret that had hardened, like a dull, shallow pond in winter, coldly, inevitably and irrevocably freezing over. Had she always been so calculating? Had the core of her always been rotten? Or had the person he’d once loved with such hope and desire died long ago and not just hours before in his arms? Had the woman he’d thought she’d been, the one that he’d once wanted to marry, ever existed, or had he always been deluded about her, just a sorry, stupid sucker for a pretty face and silky long red hair?

After unlocking the door to the apartment, he moved in just far enough to wearily peel off his overcoat, swallowing convulsively at a spike of nausea generated by the sight of her blood on the sleeve. Numbly, he heard Blair close and lock the door, and he winced in pain when Sandburg flicked on the lamp before taking off his own coat and hanging it up. He didn’t want light; he wanted the darkness to hide within, even if just for a little while. He hated to think he’d been such a complete fool. Despised feeling wounded and betrayed. Couldn’t bear the fact that some part of him still loved her, still ached like a lost child who knew all love was lost and they were left utterly alone. The sheer stupidity of his feelings lacerated him, leaving him angry and belligerent, spoiling for a fight, needing to strike out, to win something, and somehow blunt the terrible hurt that left him reeling with pain.

“Don’t say it,” he growled defensively.

“Say what?” Blair asked quietly behind him.

“ _I told you so,_ ” Jim grated sarcastically, his body taut with overwhelming emotions that he didn’t know what to do with or how to be rid of.

“Oh, man,” Sandburg sighed, and laid a hand on his back, but he flinched away from the familiar touch. He could hear both the uncertainty and the anger in Blair’s voice when his partner continued tightly, “I wouldn’t ever say that.”

“No? Why not?” Jim challenged aggressively as he turned to glare with cold hostility at Sandburg. “You _did_ tell me, more than once. And you were right. So, why wouldn’t you say it?”

Blair had to tilt his head up to meet his glare, but Sandburg didn’t give way, didn’t step back. “I don’t have to say it,” he snapped, his eyes stormy with barely leashed fury. They stared at one another, both tense and hostile, until Sandburg swallowed and offered hoarsely, “Let it go, man. You’ve been through enough and you need to –”

“Don’t tell me what I need!” Jim roared, physically pushing Blair away, so that he stumbled back against the door. Stepping closer, looming over the smaller man, he snarled, “What do you know about what I need? If you had _a clue_ about what I _need_ you’d just leave me the hell alone!”

“Fine,” Sandburg shouted, losing his grip on his own futile fury as he roughly shoved Jim out of his space. “You want to wallow in grief over that bitch, don’t let me stop you.”

He started to shoulder past, but Jim grabbed his arm and spun him around, slamming him back against the door, his white-knuckled fists twisted in Blair’s collar as he leaned in close. “You _bastard_ ,” he raged, blind with hurt and anger. “You self-righteous bastard! What do you know about how it feels, huh? When have _you_ ever loved someone so damned much and they … they ripped your heart out?”

Blair’s arms surged up between them, sharply breaking Jim’s grip and he again heatedly shoved Ellison away. His eyes were sparking with anger as he yelled, “Don’t you _dare_ tell me that I don’t know what loving hopelessly feels like! You’re not the only guy in the world who has ever been betrayed, Jim. Not the only lovesick fool who’s ever been used and … and hurt. Get over it. She was a vicious killer and not worth the misery.”

“Well, I guess _you_ would know pretty much all there is to know about betrayal, wouldn’t you?” Jim slammed back venomously, still crowding, still too angry to back off.

Blair blinked and gasped, the words hitting with the force of body blow. He gaped at Jim, his mouth falling open in shock and then his jaw tightened as he swallowed hard. His expression flattened; he dragged in one breath and then another, his gaze jerking away to dance dazedly around the room. “I’ve had enough of this,” he finally rasped and pushed past, fiercely fending off Jim’s attempt to grab his arm and hold him in place.

“ _You’ve_ had enough?” Jim grated, his voice dangerously low as Blair headed toward his room, freezing Sandburg in his tracks so that he stood stiffly, listening. “Enough of what, exactly? Enough of prying into my life, of holding a microscope over me, and my privacy? Enough of being in my space and in my face, telling me how to live my life, who to trust and who to love? As if you’ve got some right to oversee and examine my life in the minutest detail. Just who the _hell_ do you think you are, Sandburg, to tell me _you’ve_ had enough?”

For a long moment Blair stood tightly still, but then his shoulders sagged, all the fight gone out of him, and his head bowed. He nodded slowly, took a deep breath and then straightened, continuing wordlessly across the floor. But he paused briefly as he passed through the French doors to look back over his shoulder, his eyes large and dark in the shadows beyond the stairs, yet glimmering with the reflection from the soft lamplight by the door. “Who am I?” he murmured hoarsely, echoing the brutal question. “I’m nobody, man, and I have _no_ right to _any_ part of your life.” Turning his face away from Jim, he disappeared behind the closing door.

Ellison snarled in frustration, wanting to follow him and continue the argument, but he forced himself to calm down. He shook his head and scraped a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted as the last of the adrenaline from the confrontation he’d forced drained away. He knew fighting with Sandburg, taking his anger out on the kid, wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Blair he was furious with. It was Veronica and his own gullibility that had raised his ire to white hot rage. But the fight had succeeded in taking the edge off, leaving him dizzy with the need to escape into sleep. Drearily, he flicked off the lamp and crossed the floor, pausing for a moment with the vague thought that he should apologize to his partner, but he shrugged it off, unable to dredge up the energy to make the effort. Things would be better in the morning. They’d get up, go to work, and forget their heated words. Blair was right, after all. Veronica had been a bitch. And she wasn’t worth grieving over any more than he’d already done. It was the loss of the dream of what she’d represented that hurt more, the dream of being loved, of sharing a life with someone. And that dream, at least in so far as it involved her, had died a long time ago. All she was now was a nightmare that he wanted to forget.

Slowly, every muscle aching, so tired he could hardly see straight, Jim mounted the stairs, stripped and crawled into the sanctuary of his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Blair sat at his desk in the darkened room for more than an hour, at first simply forcing himself to be still, to not fly apart and trash the room and put his fist through the wall. He did his best to blank everything out, to simply breathe and concentrate on relaxing muscles so tense he was shaking, until his fists finally loosened and he had some hope of thinking clearly. Staring into the darkness, he examined his feelings and motivations, and his reactions to Jim’s words, and he tried to see the world as Jim saw it, tried to imagine his friend’s overwhelming need to be left alone, to be given the privacy and space to work things out for himself.

Not to mention time to do his ever-popular conjuring trick of magically repressing whatever he didn’t want to, or couldn’t, face.

Blair shook his head. There was too much bitterness and hostility in the last thought, and it wasn’t fair. Jim had suffered so damned much betrayal in his life, had been deeply wounded emotionally too often, and yet he continued striving to do his best and to act with integrity and courage. He had more than earned the right to a little peace and privacy in his own home, if nowhere else in his life. And, man, it really did seem as if Jim was doomed when it came to trusting his heart to anyone. No wonder he raged with scarcely rational fury.

But as much as he could rationalize their confrontation as being less than personal, as really only being a handy object upon whom to vent some of that pain, Blair found he couldn’t let his own hurt go. How long now had he been hiding his own anguish, pretending that he could deal with loving Jim while knowing it was utterly hopeless and that it was only a matter of time before he’d have to move on? Nearly a year ago, he’d blurted out that he had enough material to write three dissertations. But he’d consciously, willfully put off writing the paper because … not because he’d miss the rollercoaster or was reluctant to return to the merry-go-round of his rather prosaic academic life … but because the completion of his dissertation meant the end of his life with Jim. Just the thought of that reality sent a searing lance of pain through his body and he crossed his arms, nearly doubled over by gut-wrenching misery.

Closing his eyes, he again concentrated on winning back control over his emotions. He couldn’t go on like this, denying the inevitable, imposing upon Jim’s life. He’d been marking time, running as fast as he could to stay in one place, only to find he was constantly losing ground. The first two years had been fantastic, as exciting and fulfilling as any he’d known before, or expected to experience again. Not just the sentinel stuff, though that continued to be amazing and would always take his breath away. But the growth and deepening of their friendship, as he’d come to be more than a necessary tagalong by Jim’s side to help manage the senses, and they had become friends, good friends – great friends. More than friends, at least in his mind and heart, if not in Jim’s. Leaning back against the wooden support of his chair, Blair raked his hair off his face and remembered the exact moment when he’d known he was, quite literally, head over heels in love with Jim Ellison. He’d just leapt into space and was tumbling through the skies over the jungles of Peru, screaming in panic and knowing he was absolutely, fucking, insane to have jumped out of a perfectly good plane when he didn’t have the first clue about what he was doing.

But it didn’t matter.

Because he knew he’d follow Jim anywhere, no matter what.

And he knew Jim wouldn’t ever lose him or leave him behind.

There was nothing else as sure in his life, nothing that mattered more or ever would mean as much, as Jim. Nowhere else he wanted to be. And if he died somewhere along the dangerous road to their future it would be okay, because he’d be with Jim, doing all he could to help, supporting and caring for Jim until he drew his last breath. And even in the midst of the terror of that fall through thin air, and his bone-deep fear for Simon and Darryl, he’d been so incredibly _happy_. Insane. Absolutely insane. Fucking nuts. And so much in love that it filled him up with a sweet ache that took his breath away.

When they’d gotten home, he’d said that he’d finally gotten that it was about friendship. But his throat had been tight as he’d said the words because it was about a whole lot more than friendship. It was about his reason for breathing, for taking up space on this earth, his purpose of being.

Only … he couldn’t ever say that, admit it, shout it for the world to hear, or glory in the consummate awareness of his abiding love because … well, because. So many reasons, too many to count, but mostly because it was simply impossible. He wasn’t Jim’s idea of a hot date, for one thing, let alone Jim’s concept of a life partner. He was the buddy, the roommate who lived in the cubbyhole under the stairs for the convenience of the relationship. He was the tagalong who rendered whatever assistance he could, from brainstorming ideas on how to best use those incredible senses, to filling out reports and getting coffee. Whether or not Jim might swing both ways wasn’t the issue. The point was, after going on four years together, Blair knew Jim wasn’t inclined to swing in his direction. Being a buddy was almost sacred. You didn’t fuck that up or complicate it with sex. Not unless the passion burned too hot to ignore or repress, however good a repression magician one happened to be. Not unless the love that imbued the buddy relationship sparked into something so amazing it couldn’t be denied.

Jim had been such a loner that having a best friend, a buddy to hang out with, to confide in as much as Ellison ever confided in anyone, wasn’t something that could be risked. _Especially_ in those early days because if it hadn’t worked out, well, then, Jim would have been stuck, right? Because nobody else had a clue about how to help him with his senses. So the roles were defined, staked out, bounded by the unspoken rules and rituals of ‘buddyhood’.

For awhile, Blair had dared dream it might spark into something more. Jim touched him so often, stood so close there was no real personal space between them. Hell, they _leaned_ into one another, an undeniable sign that some kind of chemistry was going on. But this past year, Jim had started leaning away, leaving more space between them. And then he’d started exhibiting signs that he was tired of the whole deal, tired of being a lab rat. They worked together less and Jim worked more with his other colleagues, like Megan or Joel. Suddenly, the guy who wouldn’t accept a partner since Jack had disappeared seemed willing to work with just about anyone but him.

And then there was Alex.

Blair’s thoughts spun back to Jim’s challenge that he knew all there was to know about betrayal and, once again, he felt winded with the shock of the words and the harsh, ugly way they’d been delivered. Looking up at the ceiling, thinking of Jim sleeping above him, he wondered again, as he had in those tense moments, just what Jim had meant. And, somehow, Sandburg didn’t think Ellison had been talking about Maya, and how Blair had used her, becoming just one more man in her life, from her father, to her lover, and even her beloved uncle, who had lied to her and betrayed her innocence. Heaving a shuddering sigh, he wondered if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for that but, shaking his head, he figured Jim had long ago relegated the case to the files and closed the cabinet door of his memory on the details. And he doubted Jim had meant Janet, who had died for helping them, brutally murdered while she’d waited for them to meet her as promised. Now, _that_ was a betrayal that would forever haunt him and that could never be redeemed. But no, Jim had been so caught up with his own emotions over Incacha’s death that he’d scarcely registered what had happened to Janet.

No, Jim had meant Alex.

Betrayal and Alex, a two-edged sword that had cut both ways, striking through flesh and bone, severing all the way to the soul, and neither one of them had recovered from the wounds she’d dealt them. Seeing Jim kissing her on the beach had been more shocking than being murdered by her. Being left behind in the jungle when Jim went after her, and then finding them together in some kind of mystical sentinel union that he could never enter into had been more crushing than being repeatedly run over by a steamroller.

And, though Jim had insisted that he move back into the loft when they’d returned from Mexico, something fundamental had been broken between them. Whether it was trust, or the lack of it, or simple embarrassment, regret and discomfort on both their parts about all that had happened, they’d never talked about it. Scarcely talked at all about anything, anymore. And when they did talk, like about Ventriss a few weeks ago, or about Veronica over the past few days, they seemed always at cross-purposes, irritated and frustrated, angry out of all proportion. It seemed sometimes as if they were waging some kind of cold war, testing the limits to see how far they could push each other when they weren’t going out of their way to actively avoid one another, and it all just seemed so futile and exhausting.

Sighing, Blair left the chair and went to stand at the window, once again searching the night for some glimpse of the stars, but all he could see was unremitting darkness. Sorrow clogged his throat and tightened in his chest as he forced himself to let his dreams go. Whatever he might have hoped after he’d jumped out of that plane, however he might have longed for this life with Jim to go on unendingly, nothing lasted forever. He’d put everything off for too long, denying reality, turning a blind eye to Jim’s need to get his life and privacy back, ignoring the less than subtle messages from his committee that his dissertation was long overdue. It was beyond time to drag himself off the rollercoaster. Swallowing hard, Blair decided to spend the next day wrapping things up at the University and finding a place to be while he wrote his paper on sentinels and finally finished the dissertation that stood between him and his PhD.

Though his hands trembled and he could hardly breathe for the anguish of what he was doing, he methodically packed his bags, taking care to be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb the sleeping man above. There was no way he could take everything, nor did he need to, and he hoped Jim wouldn’t mind if he left some things until he came back to clear the rest out, whenever that would be. Resolutely, he stripped the bed, dumped the linen in the laundry basket, and folded the blankets, telling himself he’d never sleep there again, that this was no longer his home, just a place where he’d been for awhile. And now he’d go somewhere else. When the room was as neat as he could make it, he sat down at the desk and turned on the lamp. He’d thought about what he’d write as he’d been packing, so the words flowed smoothly from the tip of his pen. When he was finished, he padded quietly through the apartment, leaving the note on the table and drawing on his jacket before hefting the backpack and bag over his shoulder.

He stood silently for a long, long time, staring up at the upper bedroom, and then he let himself out, locking the door behind him. Slowly, with stiff resolution, he trudged as quietly as possible down the stairs. It hurt – God, it hurt – every single damned step jarred him with a pain so deep that it left him gasping by the time he reached the exit to the street. He leaned against the door to push it open, and made himself keep walking to the car. Tossing his gear in the back, he climbed in and sat dismally looking up at the balcony. And then he switched on the ignition and drove away, refusing to allow himself a last backward glance in the rearview mirror. It wasn’t as if he’d never see the place again, never see Jim again. Just not for a while. But it would never be home again, and Jim, well, he really didn’t want to dwell on all he was leaving behind.

Alone in the loft behind him, deeply asleep, unguarded as always in Sandburg’s presence, Jim hadn’t heard the fraught silence from the room below followed in time by the deliberately muted, muffled sounds as Blair packed, straightened up his desk and the volumes he was leaving in the bookcase so the space looked neat and tidy, and stripped his bed. He hadn’t heard the faint scrape of pen on paper, or the quiet pad of footsteps across the loft’s floor. Didn’t hear the door open and close, or the lock shift back into place as the key turned with a slight metallic thunk …

… or the sound of the old Volvo starting up in the parking lot below, nor the low rumble of its engine as it faded into the distance.

* * *

Groggy from his exhausted, dreamless sleep, Jim felt muddle-headed when he woke the next morning with an annoying deep ache throbbing dully behind his eyes. In little more than a hazy daze, he showered and shaved, swallowed some aspirin with a cup of strong coffee and dressed. On his way out, he glanced toward Sandburg’s room and noted the door was half open, but he assumed Blair was still asleep. Shrugging into his coat, he felt a moment of regret about the fight they’d had and wished the kid would’ve awakened so they could have had some contact before he headed downtown, just to touch base and begin the process of moving on from the hell of the past week. Grimacing, with a half-formed thought about wishes and horses, he let himself out of the loft.

On his way down the stairs to the truck, he tried to remember if this was one of the days that Blair spent at the university or if the kid would show up in the office before the day was over. But he still felt too numb to think straight and too tired to sort it all out in his head. Whatever. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t see Sandburg at work, they’d have dinner at home together later. Just like always. They’d watch some TV and maybe even talk about getting away to do some fishing. It sure would be good to take a break, even if only for a couple of days to just have a little fun. Work their way back to … but Jim cut off his thoughts before they drifted further. He just didn’t have the energy to think about all the shit that had happened in the last few months.

He climbed into the truck, which he’d left parked on the street overnight, sighing as he eased into traffic. His eyes narrowed against his persistent headache, but he was almost pitifully grateful for the fact that he had a job that would keep him from fixating on Veronica and what a fool he’d been. Once he’d finished up his report on the damned _case_ , he could bury himself in other work until her memory once again faded away.

* * *

Blair hadn’t been able to sleep once he got to his office, so he spent the night preparing the documents he’d need for his meetings with his adviser and departmental chairman, and sorting out the notes and texts he’d need to take with him later. As dawn lightened the eastern sky, he surfed the internet, searching for affordable accommodation for the next eight to twelve weeks, bookmarking a couple sites to follow up on later in the day. And then he packed all his cassette tapes on Jim and his reference books into his bag.

Restless, he paced the office for another half hour, until it was time to go down the hall and linger in wait to ambush Eli Stoddard on his way in. Stoddard appeared shortly afterward, looking slightly rumpled, his hair as disheveled as ever in his absentminded professor persona which concealed a razor-sharp intellect, exceptionally wise and balanced judgment, insatiable curiousity about human history and behaviour, and more energy than any kid Blair had ever known. The old man smiled warmly in greeting and ushered Blair into an office crowded with artifacts and hundreds of reference texts accumulated over a lifetime of study and exploration.

His throat dry, Sandburg waited until Eli had settled behind his desk and then sat down across from him, nervously gripping the loose pages in his hand as if they might suddenly fly away.

“You look as antsy as a naughty kid outside the principal’s office, Blair,” Stoddard noted with an amused quirk of his brow. “What are you up to now?”

Huffing a small, humorless laugh, Blair shook his head. “You’re not going to be happy about this, Eli,” he warned uneasily. But then he straightened, determined to just get through the meeting, as he went on, “I can’t do the sentinel diss. There’s no way I can protect the identities of my two sources, my, uh, two examples of actual sentinels, at least not the way I outlined in my proposal.”

“I see,” the professor murmured as he sat back and studied his protégé. “So, what do you propose to do about that?”

“Well, I’ve got two options,” Blair replied firmly, handing the printed pages in his hand across the desk. “I can either do a more general and theoretical paper about the possibilities of sentinels existing in modern society and the implications and opportunities that flow from that, or I can do something completely different, a paper on social deviance, drawing on my observations over the past few years of volunteering with the police department. Actually, I think _that_ paper could do double-duty, and be defended for a PhD in Criminology, as well. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing two new proposals, but I wanted to talk with you before making a final decision.”

Stoddard rapidly scanned the notes, nodding to himself as he read, and then laid the pages on the desk. “I’m not going to dictate your thesis topic to you,” he said thoughtfully. “You know as well as I do that a student can be ABD for nigh onto forever, but I’d like to see you finish your PhD and get on with your career. Which of these options do you most want to write about and defend sooner rather than later?”

Sandburg raked his fingers through his hair and sat back. “Honestly? I really don’t want to publish anything about sentinels for at least the next couple of years – long enough to distance myself from my sources so no one will draw any inferences and conclusions about where I got my ‘inside’ information. I’ve got more than enough data for _at least_ one book on the subject, and I do want to write that book someday because I think, hope anyway, that it might help other sentinels. But, um, it’s just too soon for that right now.”

Eli nodded sagely, not entirely surprised. Blair had been giving him routine updates for years on his ongoing research, and Stoddard had long ago made his own astute guess about the identity of at least one of his student’s sources. “So you’re prepared to move forward with the other paper immediately?” he prodded.

“Yeah, I am,” Sandburg affirmed confidently. “I’m going to meet with Rick later this morning to request a two, maybe three month leave of absence from my TF duties to write the diss. Classes are done for the term; I finished up the admin work a couple days ago, and it won’t be a problem to come back for the few days necessary in the next couple of weeks to take my own exams and to administer and grade the exams for my students. I want to get this done, Eli. It’s time to move on with my life. I, uh, I hope I’ll get a professorship here but….” His voice drifted off and he shrugged as he looked away.

“But Chancellor Edwards isn’t all that happy with you right now,” the professor finished dryly. Smiling wryly, he added consolingly, “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. In a few months, she’ll have forgotten the confrontations over Ventriss and her embarrassment at having to reinstate you, and will only remember why she did so. You’ve done brilliant work here, Blair – you’ve already published more than most tenured professors and you’re a popular and effective lecturer. Your fieldwork has also, always, been outstanding. Universities will be lining up to make you offers once you’ve achieved your doctorate; I know it, you know it, and, believe me, she knows it, too. You reflect too well on Rainier, and hold too much promise for landmark work in the future, for her to let you slip through her fingers over some petty squabble.”

Blowing out a breath, Blair quirked a brow and muttered, “I hope you’re right, ‘cause I’d really like to stay in Cascade.”

“It’ll all work out,” Stoddard assured him genially. “I’ll put this new proposal to the other committee members, but I think it’s safe to assume you can begin preparing the dissertation immediately. Go ahead and get the preliminary outline, the literature review of your primary references, and discussion of your research strategy, as well as the first chapter documented. If it all continues to look as promising as this initial change proposal, I’m sure there’ll be no problem. You’ve been working with Gerald on your senior seminar in Criminology, haven’t you? I think I’ll invite him and the head of the Criminology department to join your dissertation committee. That would give us two members from Anthropology, two for Psychology and now two from Criminology, as well as myself.” Grinning wryly, he added, “An unusually large committee, I suppose, but then most students aren’t angling for a triple PhD out of one dissertation, but you’re very close to finishing everything you need in Psychology, as well. Despite your occasionally erratic attendance record, you’ve got a good reputation here, and that earns you a certain amount of leeway in making changes like this.”

“Thanks, Eli,” Blair replied with a wan smile as he stood to leave. “Within the next two weeks, I should be able to get more than enough done to concretely demonstrate my renewed commitment to finish the diss.”

Stoddard grinned bemusedly. “The speed with which you write never ceases to astound me, lad,” he reflected fondly. “I’ll be glad to see this last hurdle finished – I’ve got plans for a project in Central America and hope to get it funded in the next six months or so; I’d like to have you on the team.”

“Oh, yeah?” Blair replied, doing his best to seem enthusiastic.

Eli gazed at him thoughtfully, his bushy brows furrowing in concern at the lackluster response. “You know, if there’s anything else troubling you, son, I’m always willing to listen,” he offered kindly.

“I know,” Sandburg replied softly as his gaze dropped to the floor. “It’s … I just have to ….” he stammered uncomfortably. Looking back up at the man who’d been his mentor for years, he shrugged helplessly. “Life’s been, uh, complicated lately, but like you said, Eli, things’ll work out. I just have to get this paper written and go on from there. I appreciate your support on the change of topics and, well, I’ll keep you posted.”

When Stoddard nodded agreeably, Blair was grateful not to be pushed for more disclosure of what was troubling him. He lifted his hand in a casual wave of departure and left the office, heading further down the hall to see his departmental chair, Rick Mercer. He then headed upstairs to alert his Criminology prof, as well as the department head, to the impending invitation to join his Dissertation Review Committee. Half an hour after that, he was back in his own office. He pulled up the bookmarked sites on his computer and called the contact numbers, remotely pleased, or at least relieved, to find a place that suited his needs and was immediately available.

“Thanks,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way and should be there in, oh, no more than two hours.”

* * *

Simon had been keeping a wary eye on his lead detective all morning. Jim’s skin was still pallid with strain, and he rubbed at his temple often enough for Banks to deduce that he had a headache that wouldn’t quit. But, other than those telltale signs of stress, Ellison was plodding through his paperwork with the same stolid resolution he showed any other day of the week or year. As the time neared the noonday break for lunch, the Captain was somewhat surprised that Sandburg hadn’t appeared yet to check on his partner, especially given what had gone down the night before. But he supposed the kid was busy doing whatever it was that he did at Rainier, and would most likely be in later in the day.

Deciding that both he and Jim needed a respite from the drudgery of writing and reading reports, he put on his jacket, sauntered with feigned casualness out of his office and paused at Ellison’s desk. “Feel like checking out new the Cuban place down the street for lunch?” he offered.

Startled out of his concentration on the case summary he was inputting on his computer, Jim looked up, his expression stoic, almost flat and he seemed about to refuse, but then he nodded. “Yeah, I could use a break, thanks,” he admitted.

“Sandburg stuck at Rainier again today?” Simon asked as Jim grabbed his own jacket, circled his desk and they headed out to the hall.

“I guess,” Ellison replied listlessly when they paused in front of the elevators, his tone not quite indifferent. “He wasn’t awake yet when I left this morning.”

“I suppose he’ll be in later,” Banks mused, mostly just to keep the desultory conversation going.

“Maybe, probably,” Jim agreed with a shrug.

Hustling quickly along the street to get out of the unseasonably cold drizzling rain, they didn’t speak again until they were settled in a booth by the windows, appreciatively sniffing the delectable scents wafting from the open kitchen grill. Checking out the daily specials posted on a chalkboard, Jim was surprised to realize how hungry he was. They ordered and sipped on the icy beers they were immediately served, and both men visibly relaxed in the easiness of their company as both coworkers and friends.

“You doing okay?” Simon finally ventured.

Jim’s mouth quirked as he studied the yellow depths in his glass mug and then his gaze flicked toward the rain-splattered window before he replied, “Yeah, I guess.” Sighing heavily, he leaned back against the leather behind him, and let his eyes meet Simon’s. “I think what bugs me most was how easily she played me,” he admitted sardonically.

With a slight, world-weary smile, Simon consoled, “You’re not the only guy she fooled, and certainly not the first man to be hoodwinked by some woman.”

Jim grimaced wryly, thinking unhappily that he seemed to get ‘hoodwinked’ more often than most, but he nodded as he again looked out at the street. “You got that right,” he agreed wearily. “About the only one who wasn’t taken in by her helpless, ‘I’m scared’, act was Sandburg. He had her nailed almost from the very beginning.”

“No kidding?” Simon rejoined, amused. “You know, we might make a detective out of that kid, yet.”

Jim snorted softly and shook his head. “Nah, not likely.” When Simon looked surprised at the comment, Ellison clarified with a carefully neutral tone. “Oh, it’s not that he’s not good at the work – he’s been more detective than observer for more than a year now. But he wants to be a professor when he finally grows up, not a cop. Sooner or later, he’s going to finish his dissertation and his ride’ll be over. And that will be that.”

“What if he did want to be a cop?” Simon asked. “Would you be interested in keeping him on as your fulltime partner?”

“Sure,” Jim answered readily enough to reveal the idea clearly appealed to him. “I’m managing my senses okay, but he gives me an edge, helps me to be better than when I’m working on my own – mostly, I think, because he’s focused on the senses while I’m focused on the case. And he’s quick at putting the puzzle pieces of evidence, opportunity and motive together, analyzing the probabilities and coming up with credible scenarios. Easy to get along with, too. Maybe a little too quick to take chances with his own safety, but a lot of that is just lack of experience and training.” But then Jim grinned as he said dryly, “Not sure how he’d be with a weapon, though. Guns make him nervous.” When Banks simply nodded reflectively, Ellison asked, “What’s prompting all this, Simon? You’ve never shown any interest in bringing Sandburg on board permanently before.”

“Well,” Banks replied as he set his frosted mug down, “seems to me that if he was only interested in finishing his degree, that dissertation of his would’ve been finished a long time ago. I think he likes the work, gets a kick out of helping solve crimes and catching the bad guys. And, well … I think he likes working with you. I’m not sure he’s all that eager for it to end.” Shrugging, he added his own bottom line, “Besides, the two of you rack up the best solve rate in the state. When a team is working together as well as the two of you do, I like to keep the winning streak going as long as possible.”

“I can sound him out, if you want,” Jim offered off-handedly as their meals were laid on the table by the server. Quirking a devilish grin, he added warningly, “Can’t promise, though, that even if he finds the idea interesting that he’d agree to cut his hair.”

Banks barked out a laugh and rolled his eyes. “Well, nobody’s perfect – and maybe that mane of his would be useful. I’m mean, so long as he’s not working with Vice, who’d ever believe he was a cop?” he rejoined good-humoredly. “Just don’t let him know that we might be able to finesse the issue with the Academy. Be fun to string him along for a bit.”

“I guess,” Jim agreed as he tucked into his lunch. “Assuming he’s interested at all which, frankly, really isn’t likely.”

Though Simon kept his own counsel, he wasn’t sure Ellison was right in his assessment of the possibilities of his informal partner jumping to another career track. Sandburg’s instincts about Ventriss had been bang on, and the kid had certainly been relentless in his insistence that the creep be investigated and brought to justice. His instincts about a lot of things, right from the beginning, like when he’d nailed Lash’s modus operendi before anyone else, his grit and gumption in sticking with a case – well, with Jim – even in the face of personal danger, and his willingness to use a weapon when necessary, all left Banks with the feeling that the kid was already as much a cop as he was an academic.

He’d watched Sandburg closely over the past week, and had been impressed with the younger man’s passionate commitment to and support of Jim’s innocence despite the _very_ effective frame-up, not to mention Ellison’s very obvious, if predictable, inclination to cut the kid out of the game because of the personal history involved. And then there was the way Sandburg had waited so tensely for Jim to return to the car the night before, despite his brave words that Ellison would be just fine. Put it all together with three years of devoted attention to Jim, include the fact that he literally came back from the dead when Jim called him, and it all added up in Simon’s fairly straightforward estimation that Blair was completely, maybe even irrevocably, psychologically committed to being Jim’s partner, and had been for a long time.

Beyond all of that, ever since the fountain and despite the weird lunacy of Jim’s behaviours in Mexico, Simon had been utterly convinced that Ellison and Sandburg shared some kind of destiny. For him, there was no other way to reconcile or rationalize the mind-blowing miracle he’d seen performed on the damp grass at dawn in front of Hargrove Hall. Just what that destiny was, and what all it might entail, was more than he was comfortable imagining; simply remembering that Blair had been stone cold dead raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Whatever had happened that morning, however it had happened, it was something incredible and there was no doubt in his mind that there was something unique, some power or energy he didn’t understand, between these two men. When it came to detective work, though Sandburg hadn’t even been trained, in all of Simon’s career, he’d never seen such an inter-dependent, almost symbiotic partnership that worked so well. The _only_ time he had seen such electricity and completion between two such different people was in the rare marriage that seemed grounded on something out of the ordinary, something almost magical or mystical in the affinity between the individuals involved. _Like they were soulmates, or some damned thing,_ he thought reluctantly, wincing internally at the way these two always seemed linked into some kind of touchy-feely, mystical shit that creeped him out.

And, well, hell, all the mumbo-jumbo aside, his essential pragmatism insisted that it just didn’t make any kind of sense to go on thinking that Sandburg would eventually wind up his activities with the PD and disappear into the esoteric world of academia. Not that there was anything wrong with the refined atmosphere of study and debate, but Sandburg had too much energy, was too into action and outcomes, to ever settle for a life like that. Hell, these men had been born to work together; with the results they got, any fool could see that.

* * *

Blair tried to see it as a good sign when the dreary rain stopped and the sun actually peeked out from behind the clouds just before he found the address he was looking for on the outskirts of Port Townsend. He drove down a sandy lane between stands of conifers that led up to a bluff overlooking the ocean. The house was a two-story traditional seaside design of wedgewood and white painted siding and large expanses of glass oriented on an angle toward the sea. From what he could see of the back of the place, before the lane split to loop around toward the road to form a semi-circle driveway leading to the garage, it looked like part solarium and part balcony above a well-tended lawn and gardens. Parking in the wide double drive, he got out of the car and drew in a deep breath of salt-scented air before climbing a set of flagstone steps to the double-wide entry and rang the bell.

He heard the low bark of a large dog, and his mouth quirked in a half-grin at the warning of a stranger’s presence. While he waited, he wondered if it was a Lab, or maybe a Shepherd. The tone was too low to be a collie. Moments later, the door opened and a petite older woman appeared. She was dressed in a roomy pullover and slacks, comfortable but classy, and her thick, silver hair was clipped short to frame her gamin face. She looked like a good-natured elderly pixie, or perhaps a fairy Godmother on her day off. One fine-boned hand rested lightly on the massive head of the Golden Retriever who stood watchfully by her side.

“Hello,” he said, smiling with unconscious friendliness. “I’m Blair Sandburg and I’m looking for Mrs. Charlotte Keating.”

Her smile widened as she nodded, and beckoned him inside. “You’ve found her. But most folks just call me Charlie,” she said, leading him out of the gracious entryway and into the spacious living room with a stunning view of the Pacific. “And this is Sam,” she added, gesturing to the dog that continued to watch Blair warily. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite – just a bit suspicious of people he doesn’t know yet. Please, sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”

“Oh, hey, a cup of tea would be great, if it’s no trouble,” Blair replied gratefully. Though the drive had just taken two hours, he’d not had anything to eat or drink all day and he was feeling a bit bushed.

“No trouble at all,” she assured him. “While I’m in the kitchen, you might want to go outside on the deck. You can just see the top of the cottage we’re renting down the bluff behind the trees, closer to the beach. If you spot an old man pretending to work in the garden, that’ll be Bob. Just wave – he’ll know who you are. We’ve been expecting you.”

She bustled off and Blair wandered across the room, appreciating the gleam of the pine fireplace, the wooden bookshelves, laden with what looked like mostly fiction and one elegant porcelain figurine, the smooth grain of the tables, and the comfortable looking furniture. Beautiful paintings graced the walls, but none tried to rival the magnificent view of the sea. Instead, there was a watercolour of a rustic gate into a secret, hidden garden, oils of forested mountains and raging rivers, and of rain-washed streets in what looked like Paris. The colours of the room were all blues and greens, resonating with the sea and easy on the eyes and restful. He slid the deck door open and stepped outside, and his hair was caught by the fresh wind that blew in over the water. The property sloped down to a low ridge of trees, and beyond the copse there seemed to be only blue water, stretching on forever. He spotted Bob immediately, when the old man kneeling by a bed of riotous flowers looked up at the sound of the opening door. Sandburg waved, and Bob Keating returned the gesture as he got stiffly to his feet. He had a stocky, solid build, a receding hairline and a ready smile that was warm and welcoming, even at a distance. As the man below made his way back to the house, Blair’s gaze lifted to search out the peaked roof of the small, furnished cottage he’d be renting for the next little while. The place sure looked private and if a tsunami rolled in, he’d be in trouble as the building seemed to be perched on the very edge of the low bluff over the invisible beach.

“That was our home when we were first married, nearly fifty years ago,” Charlie said from behind him. “It’s not fancy, I’m afraid, more cozy with just the one bedroom and an open kitchen and living space. Great room, they call them these days, but it’s a little too small to be a ‘great’ anything.” There was laughter in her voice, and her eyes were warm with her memories of the early times of their marriage. “I think you’ll find everything you need, though. And you can either do your laundry here at the house, there’s a side door into the basement, or in town.”

Turning, he exclaimed softly, “Hey, let me take that,” as he moved quickly to relieve her of the heavy tray she was carrying, and he placed it on the oblong patio table. She’d brought a large china teapot and three good-sized porcelain mugs, as well as a plate of what smelled like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. There was a small jar of honey, a little pitcher of milk and sliced lemons also arrayed, as well as green linen napkins and three dessert plates in a bright floral pattern.

“Thank you,” she acknowledged comfortably as she pulled out one of the six padded chairs and waved him to another. “We built this bigger place to have more room for the kids, but now they’re off living their own lives and it seems a lot to keep up sometimes.”

Blair nodded as he again looked over the grounds. “I could help while I’m here, if you want,” he offered as he took the mug she’d poured for him. “I could use the exercise and I like working outside. Seems only fair in exchange for not having to use the Laundromat in town.”

Bob came out on the deck and Blair stood to shake the older man’s hand, finding the grip firm and sure. He looked into twinkling blue eyes as he said, “I’m Blair Sandburg. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Well, we’re pleased to meet you, too, young man,” Bob replied as he settled into a chair. “We checked out the references you gave us at Rainier, and I must say people seem to think highly of you. We’re glad to have someone steady renting the place. One of the professors, Stoddard I think, said you were coming out here to write your dissertation for your PhD.”

“That’s right,” Sandburg confirmed as he helped himself to a cookie. “It might take me three months, but I hope to be done in two.” Looking out over the grounds to the sea, he felt himself relax and found the sensation unusual. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been for what seemed like a long time. “This is a beautiful place,” he murmured. “I’m lucky it was available.”

“What’s your field of study, Blair?” Charlie asked, her green eyes bright with interest.

“I’m an anthropologist,” he replied readily. “My dissertation is about the incidence of deviant behaviour in society, and analyzing such behaviours as part of our fundamental human equation. I’ve been working with the Cascade Police Department for more than three years as an observer. I’ve, uh, I’ve been allowed to observe the operations of the Major Crime Unit for the last few years, and I learned a lot about the challenges faced by city’s law enforcement community, about social reality versus theory.” Looking back at the ocean, he reflected, “I hadn’t had a chance to know many police officers, or criminals for that matter, before. I was impressed, really impressed, by the commitment and skill of the police, and the risks they take to protect other people. I, uh, well, I hope my paper will honour them and help anyone who reads it better understand the pressures and dangers of their work, and why they sometimes have a kind of ‘circle the wagons’ mentality; sometimes, between the bad guys and the media and a fairly indifferent citizenry, it seems like their only friends are the people on the line beside them.”

Bob shrugged with apparent skepticism. “Seems from the news that big city cops are all on the take,” he noted with dry provocation.

Blair shook his head amiably. “And that’s why we can’t unquestionably believe the impressions left by sensationalistic journalism,” he retorted but without heat. “Sure, every barrel has a few bad apples, every town has a thief, every social group has those who break the rules or seek only to further their own ends for personal gain. But, honestly, the vast majority men and women I observed in Cascade left me feeling humble and grateful – and sorry that the good work they do, their selfless courage and devotion to justice, apparently isn’t newsworthy. I don’t think that enough of us, as individuals, reflect on our personal responsibilities to contribute to the social good, to ensure that we have communities that are healthy and safe for everyone. And that makes the job of the police that much harder.”

Charlie chuckled and lightly punched her husband’s arm. “Stop baiting the boy, Bob,” she chided, and then turned to Blair, saying, “Bob’s family were well to do, and never really approved of his choice of career as a State Trooper. Still, at least they didn’t cut off the trust from his grandmother. It was her money that allowed us to build this place.”

Blair grinned widely as he exclaimed, “You were a law enforcement officer? That’s great, man. Hey, if you don’t mind, I’d love to hear about your experiences and perspectives on why people choose to commit crimes.”

They chatted for the next half hour, getting to know one another. Then Bob gave him a key to the old cottage, telling him to follow the rutted road past the house down toward the beach, and Blair gave them a cheque for the first month’s rent. Declining an invitation to join them for a barbecue on the deck that evening, he took his leave after promising to come back after breakfast to get a rundown on what they’d like him to do with the lawn and gardens.

Short minutes later, he parked next to a slightly ramshackle, single story cottage nestled close under the trees. The whitewash could do with a touchup, but the ivy, climbing roses and wisteria covered the shabbiness, and he thought the little house looked charming. Impatiens grew in abundance around the dwelling, and he saw white Nicosia blooms that would pleasantly scent the night air. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and his eyes widened in appreciation. He felt as if he’d stepped back in time, and was certain the furniture was older than he was. But everything was meticulously clean and the whole wall facing the water was one wide expanse of glass. The kitchen was small but eminently serviceable, with a window over the sink that looked out at the small forest between him and the main house. There was a small refrigerator with a freezer that would need defrosting from time to time, a two-element cook-top, toaster, microwave and blender. The glassware, dishes, cutlery and pots and pans that filled the oak cupboards all looked fairly new. There was a small, cast iron stove in one corner near the windows, with wood stacked neatly on either side, with a basket of kindling ready to hand. Windows on the south side of the house looked down over the long stretch of sandy beach, and one doorway in the north wall led to a small bedroom that contained a double bed covered with what looked like a handmade quilt, a dresser with mirror, bedside table and reading lamp. The wide bowed window that had a cushioned seat gave out to more endless beach and ocean. There was a small clothes closet, and another door led into the bathroom. No tub, but the large modern shower would more than meet his needs.

Back in the living room, he took the liberty of rearranging some of the furniture, so that he could sit at the little writing desk that easily accommodated his laptop, and look out at the eternally rolling swells that broke into foaming white caps as the water rushed to the beach. While there was no phone, there were two separate cable connections for the television and his computer. Rummaging in his backpack, he checked his cell phone and found there was a strong signal, so the lack of a regular phone made no difference.

The place was slightly more than he’d hoped to pay, given the state of his bank account. The rent, utilities included, would take most of his ready cash for the next three months. But he considered the cottage worth every dime. The peace and solitude of it was soothing and restful. Besides, he was certain he’d be able to pick up some part-time work in town to pay for food and he had few other wants or needs. After stowing away the few groceries he’d brought to get him through the first few meals, he gazed at the phone, and debated calling Jim, but hesitated. He’d been surprised that Jim hadn’t called him that morning, after finding his note. Sighing, Sandburg crossed his arms, feeling guilty for having pretty much run off in the night, without saying anything first. But he’d thought the note had been clear, and that Jim wouldn’t mind much, especially given how intense Ellison had been about wanting some privacy. But Jim hadn’t called him at the office that morning, nor had his friend tried the cell number later.

So, maybe Jim didn’t want to talk to him. Maybe Jim was just relieved, even glad, he was gone.

Whatever.

He couldn’t think about that now. It was too … too depressing. He had to stay focused on his priorities and keep moving, remain active, or he’d get stuck in a mire of anxious worry and doubt. They’d been friends for years and would remain friends, even if it was time to go their separate ways. Shaking himself out of the doldrums, Sandburg left the cottage to head into town. Since he’d be on leave without pay from his job at Rainier as soon as the exam period was over, if he planned to eat over the next two or three months, he needed to get a job.

Half an hour later, after cruising the main street, he was sitting at a small, round table on the crowded outdoor patio of a Starbucks coffee shop on the beach side of the highway, perusing the part-time job listings in the local paper. The summer tourist season was just beginning and a lot of fast food places and restaurants were advertising work, as were the motels that needed to augment their housekeeping staff. He’d also spotted a couple of ‘help wanted’ signs in store windows along the main drag in town. Sitting back he gazed out over the ocean and thought about which of the jobs would be most congenial. The idea of working in fast food places that reeked of grease didn’t appeal to him much. Nor did housekeeping. Restaurants, then, as wait staff, or maybe one of the shops? It would be nice to work in a place near the water. Circling a few of the ads in the paper, he picked up his empty coffee cup and turned to the trash bin by the entrance, just as the manager of the coffee and light meal bar taped a ‘help wanted’ sign on the window beside the door.

Blair looked at the sign and then at the sea. The fresh breeze and sharp salt air were invigorating and he could probably walk along the beach to and from work, which would save on the cost of gas. Nodding to himself, he went back inside to apply for the job, and fifteen minutes later, after negotiating the time off he needed to be at Rainier for the final exams, he drove back to the cottage. He’d have the evening shift from four until ten on the weekends and three other evenings a week. The job of barista didn’t pay all that much, but it was enough to meet his needs. More importantly, it would be busy and uncomplicated, and he wouldn’t have time to think too much about dreams that were never going to come true.

Once back in his new if temporary home, he set up his computer and got busy. The only anodyne he’d ever found to feeling miserable was work. He could lose himself in ideas, stop thinking about his screwed up life and just focus on writing one sentence after the other, paragraph after paragraph, as he built his new dissertation from scratch.

* * *

As the afternoon dragged on, Jim had the feeling the tedious day would never end. His headache still throbbed behind his eyes, though it was a distant annoyance more than acute discomfort, and he felt sluggish, exhausted, though all he’d done was process paper all day long. Writing up the report on the case, detailing Veronica’s betrayal and Aldo’s treachery, left him feeling drained and an even greater fool than he’d felt himself to be the evening before. He found himself watching the clock, and the entrance from the hall from the elevator, wondering when, or if, Sandburg would show up. Classes were done for the term and there was a week’s hiatus before exams started. Maybe he was still grading end of term papers, or maybe developing the exams to be written by his students.

Maybe he was just pissed off.

Grimacing, Ellison dragged his gaze away from the clock and back to the pile of circulars and files in his in-basket. Most of it was just administrative trivia, but he still had to skim the documentation and sign it off before passing it along. Staring at an update from Personnel on the latest training schedule, and deciding he didn’t care if he improved how he chaired meetings or conducted interviews, he reflected on the confrontation he’d had with Sandburg the night before, wincing as he recalled some of his uncalled-for comments and challenges. Scrubbing his face with his hands, again looking up at the clock before checking out the doorway to see if Sandburg had magically appeared in the last thirty seconds, he sighed and shook his head. He had to hand it to the kid. Blair’s own anger had been very apparent in his flushed features and sharp tone, but he’d held it together and hadn’t succumbed to the baiting. Sandburg had walked away, giving him the space to calm down rather than let the fight get out of hand. God knew, Jim acknowledged with a wry twist of his lip, _he_ hadn’t been in any shape to diffuse what might well have escalated into something very nasty rather than simply biting and, well, okay, rude. The kid seemed to have some kind of sixth sense about knowing when to walk away and when to push back.

But then, there’d been plenty of times he’d given Blair space, too. Like, uh … well, when the kid was upset about Maya. Both times. Or when he had to mark papers when they were on stakeouts. It was a reciprocal thing. What friends did. Understanding when the other one was off-balance and providing a distraction, refocusing the issue, or getting the hell out of the way until the storm had passed.

Still, he’d said some things last night that pushed the boundaries.

Sighing, he flipped through a cold case file that gave quarterly updates and highlights of unsolved major crimes with similar MOs in different cities nationally. Noting Blair’s scrawled notes drawing his attention to certain cases, he scanned those details with somewhat more focused interest. His jaw tightened as he read through the first document his partner had flagged about a murderer who battered his victims, male and female, before choking them to death. In addition, he marked the victims with a distinctive, ritualized symbol carved into their cheeks, though an example of the disfiguration was not provided. Given that the mark was the only similarity that tied together the cases occurring over multiple years in disparate locations, Jim wasn’t particularly surprised that the authorities in the other cities were being cagey with the details – it was the sort of definitive evidence that one didn’t risk exposing lest it inspire copycats that would only muddy subsequent investigations. The ‘branding’ of the victims was the only clue, other than the distinctive bruising left by choking fingers and thumbs and bunched up fists, which gave some indication of the killer’s size. There was nothing else. No fingerprints, no scraped skin under the victims’ fingernails, though they’d apparently fought for their lives, no traces of hair or clothing fibers, no footprints – the crime scenes were extraordinarily clean, which was curious. He must be wearing gloves and protective clothing, maybe a cap or mask over his hair and face. Whoever he was, the killer was very careful. Frowning, Jim scratched his cheek as he concluded the guy was probably also an arrogant son of a bitch who no doubt thought he’d never be caught. Given how many years he’d been operating, maybe he was right.

After reading the document, he went back to Sandburg’s note and had to agree that the chosen victims were an odd, inconsistent mix. They seemed to be randomly chosen and had no discernible relationship between one another. Yet, over and over in different cities, the murderer chose the same sort of people to kill: prostitutes, teachers in colleges or universities, college students, various self-employed individuals such as a butcher in one city, a baker in another, a craft and gift shop owner who had made and sold various innocuous items like candles and dried floral arrangements, a tailor, a junk collector, a petty thief and, once, even a soldier on leave. Some victims were rich, others poor like the apparently harmless panhandler in the last city; none were from exactly the same social or income level or neighborhood. So far, more than twenty people had been murdered with the same MO in five different cities, often with a year, two- or even three-year break between the bouts of violence. Grimacing, he read, _‘All the locations are university towns,’_ and then muttered to himself, “Yeah, well, Sherlock, I’ll bet every one of those cities also has insurance offices and any number of other similarities.”

Still, he understood that his partner was probably only observing that Cascade could be a potential location for future murders if the perpetrator was inclined to move in their direction. “Let’s hope he doesn’t like cold, rainy climates,” Jim murmured as he turned to the three other cases Blair had flagged. One reported on a new designer drug that was wreaking havoc on the eastern seaboard and had just appeared the week before in Los Angeles so its spread up the coast was predictable. Another was about the emergence of a new gang of self-styled patriots in the Midwest that appeared to be recruiting members along the west coast; the incarceration of most of the Sunrise Patriots left a vacuum for that sort of nutcase organization and, again, it was entirely predictable that in the next few months to a year, they’d have a presence in the Pacific Northwest. The last one gave the details of a series of hijackings of military convoys in California and Oregon that were transporting weapons. The drugs, the new gang and the hijackers all left a trail of bodies in their wake. While he agreed with Sandburg’s judgment that the cases were worth paying attention to, as the bad guys could be moving in their direction, Jim decided that none of the reports resembled any recent cases in Cascade and weren’t of any immediate interest or assistance, so he closed the file, initialed it and tossed it into his out-basket.

When the clock finally ticked its way to four PM, and he decided that Sandburg evidently wasn’t going to show up, he locked away the papers he hadn’t yet gotten around to staring blindly at, figuring he could ignore them just as well the next day. Remembering that it was his night to cook, he thought briefly about what he needed to pick up on his way home. If he made the seafood pasta that Blair liked so much, maybe that would be enough to convey the message that he regretted how the past week had gone and they could just put it behind them.

An hour and a half later, mildly surprised to find that Sandburg wasn’t back from the university, Jim dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Glancing at his watch, he decided he had time for a beer before putting their dinner together. Turning from the refrigerator, unscrewing the bottle cap, he noticed the note on the dining room table. With a frown of curiosity, he sipped at his beverage and ambled over, wondering if Blair had left a message about having a hot date and not being home for supper. But his expression flattened as he read the familiar scrawl, and he blinked before reading it again, as if the words hadn’t made any sense the first time.

 

 _Jim,_

 _Three years is a whole lot longer than you bargained for when you gave me a place to crash after the warehouse blew up, let alone since you agreed to let me work with you. It’s been almost a year since you asked how much more information I needed for my dissertation, and I told you then that I already had enough to write ten papers. It’s only reasonable that you would have expected that I would move out long before now. I know that because I didn’t seem to get the message, months ago, that you wanted us to wrap things up, I’ve pretty much forced you into giving increasingly frustrated signals that you’d like to have your privacy back. I guess I’ve seemed pretty obtuse, but I really have known for a while that you’ve been getting tired of having me always impinging on your space. I owe you an apology for pretending I didn’t notice, and didn’t appear to take your messages seriously._

 _But when you accused me tonight of not having a clue about what you need, I knew that I couldn’t keep ignoring your wishes just because I’ve been reluctant to move on. Sorry, man, I guess I’ve just been having too good a time, enjoying the whole ride so much, I didn’t want it to end. But that’s not fair to you._

 _All that to say, I can’t blame you for being pretty fed up with the sight of me tonight, especially after the hellish week you’ve been through. But Jim if, as you indicated earlier, I’ve somehow overstepped the boundaries or given the impression that I’ve stood in judgment of you, your decisions, or your life, I really am truly, truly sorry. Yes, of course I’ve been observing you, but never to judge, only to understand; and when I’ve made suggestions or offered comments, it was only, ever, to help you where and when I could._

 _An apology isn’t much good, though, is it, unless behaviors change? So I’ve given some thought to where we might go from here. You’ve been doing really well with your senses for months now, and I can see that you’re a lot more comfortable working with your other colleagues in Major Crime. I think we both know your abilities are kind of an open secret amongst them, even if the others really don’t know how you do what you do so incredibly well. Anyway, I think it’s more than safe to try one last test – and I bet those words are music to your ears. Let’s see how comfortable you are with managing on your own for an extended period of time, at work and here at home, without a tagalong civilian observer who really has very little to offer you anymore in terms of helping you with your senses. Personally, I’m betting you’ll do just fine._

 _Meanwhile, to give you the space you need to see how things go on your own, I’m going to find somewhere else to live temporarily while I write my dissertation. I’ve got some new ideas on how to approach it, and I really think you’ll like the final document when you see it. It’s hard to say exactly how long it will take me to finish, but I figure two months, maybe three. If all goes well for you, then I think we can call our working relationship a success and we’ll both know it’s time for me to permanently move out. I hope you won’t mind me leaving some of my stuff here in the meantime._

 _However, if you do encounter problems, I won’t be far away and could return anytime. For the next few weeks, I’ll be in and out of town anyway to do stuff at the university. Trust me, man, I’d be glad to come back if I can be of help. Don’t worry about creating any kind of problem with finishing my diss. I’ve put it off so long that a few more delays wouldn’t make any difference._

 _I have to admit that I feel a bit awkward about slipping away in the dead of night, but I can’t in all conscience keep ignoring your frustration with having me around, and a clean, fast exit just feels like a good idea right now. You have a right to your privacy, man, and I’m down with that. Frankly, I expect you’ll find this last test a relief even if it is unexpected, and I really hope the next few weeks will go well for you. I know how dearly you value your independence as well as how much you’d like to, well, to not have me in your face all the time. As much as I’ve loved just about every moment of the last few years, believe me I do understand that it’s been far from ideal, and frequently not any fun at all, for you. However, on the off chance that you’ll think this independence test is a bad idea for some reason, I’ll be at Rainier all morning if you want to discuss it. Otherwise, if you want or need to reach me, I’ll have my cell with me and I promise to remember to keep it charged._

 _When all is said and done, I hope you know that you’ve become the best friend I’ve ever had. I admire you, respect you and care a good deal about you. Once we’ve sorted out where we go from here, it’s my hope that even if I’m no longer working with you every day, or living under your roof, that our friendship will remain solid._

 _Blair_

 

Carefully setting the pages back onto the table, Jim took a long swallow of beer and then moved slowly to the balcony windows where he stood staring down at the street. He wasn’t sure what to think or feel about Sandburg’s precipitate action. Truthfully, after returning from the debacle with Barnes, he hadn’t given any thought to the idea that Blair wouldn’t always live in the small room under the stairs. Frowning, his lips twisting in chagrin, he figured that he’d always known intellectually that the day would come when Sandburg would move on, but emotionally … well, for all his bitching, he had grown accustomed to having the kid around. Blair was good company and something of a security blanket, he guessed with a wince of discomfort. He had never liked the idea of being dependent on anyone but he’d gotten used to knowing he had ready backup and help with his senses if that help was ever needed.

And, man, he’d sure needed help often enough. Yeah, okay, he’d pretty much despised the tests and the idea of being ‘observed’, and the first chapter of Blair’s paper had thrown him. But, somehow, all that seemed separate from the idea of having a friend nearby who knew what was going on with him and always had some new idea to work out any problems. Still, the thought of a last test that was really no test left him feeling such immense relief it was nearly staggering, as if a massive weight he’d forgotten he was carrying had been suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

But the idea that his colleagues in MCU had guessed his secret raised new concerns. Was Sandburg right about that? And, if Blair was right, did the others resent his lack of disclosure? They didn’t seem to treat him any differently. Joel, for example, hadn’t said anything when they’d been investigating the Ventriss case.

Though Taggart had given him a few odd looks when they’d been at the first crime scene.

 _Damn_ , he thought, as he raked his hand over his head. _Should I say something to the others or not?_ He’d been keeping the secret so long, it was a part of him and the idea of talking with anyone but Simon or Blair about his senses made him feel skittish. Well, he didn’t have to decide that night. He could think about it for a bit, maybe talk to Simon to see if he agreed with Sandburg.

Heaving a sigh, Jim turned to look around the loft, unconsciously listening to the silence. The grocery bags on the kitchen counter caught his eye and he remembered the meal he’d planned as a wordless apology for his behaviour the evening before. He felt … deflated? Disappointed? Or was it simply disconcerting to know that, after three years of Sandburg’s presence, his home was now his again, and his alone? Because if he understood the letter Blair had left, if everything worked out with his senses, Sandburg would be finding a new place to live when he got back from wherever he was.

Damn. The kid must have left in the middle of the night, and probably would have been expecting a phone call from him all morning – more like all day. What would Blair have thought about the lack of any call? Had he found another place to live on such short notice? If not, then where was he? Maybe camping out in his office? Well, that was just stupid. Moving swiftly across the floor to the phone on the kitchen wall, Jim called Sandburg’s office, but just got the automated message service. Biting his lip in disappointment, he hung up, bowing his head as he rubbed the back of his neck and thought about trying Blair’s cell phone.

But that begged the question of what to say, other than, ‘Get your ass home because I bought some of your favourite stuff for dinner.’ Numbly, his own appetite gone, he unpacked the bags, stowing food in the cupboards and refrigerator while he thought about Blair sneaking off like a thief in the night. Why couldn’t he have waited so they could talk about it? Sure, they’d both been pissed off the previous night, and he’d said some things in the heat of the moment that he regretted, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t flared at one another before. Retrieving the still half-full bottle of beer from the counter, Jim moved into the living room and sank down into his chair. Leaning forward, the bottle cradled in his hands, he stared at the floor.

Sandburg had taken off to write his dissertation, and Blair thought he’d be pleased with the final product. Grimacing, taking a sip of beer, he seriously doubted that he’d ever be comfortable with the idea of that damned paper, let alone the finished document. Setting that probably erroneous assumption on Blair’s part aside, he thought instead about the fact that the kid hadn’t had to leave just to write it – hell, he’d written plenty of other things over the years. Examinations. Articles for one journal or another. Papers for whatever courses he seemed to be perpetually taking. Shaking his head, Jim found himself wondering fleetingly why Sandburg was still taking classes when supposedly he’d finished all the work necessary for his PhD, with the exception of the dissertation, by the time they’d first met.

And then he wondered why he’d never thought to ask the question before. Setting those musings aside as irrelevant, he decided that Blair hadn’t needed to leave to simply write his paper. Leaning back to rest his head against the chair, he shifted his gaze from the floor to the ceiling. Sandburg had left because Blair thought he wanted his privacy and space back.

Otherwise, he’d still be there.

And Blair was right, wasn’t he? Having peace and privacy back would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? Sure it would. Hell, he was coming up on forty years old – he sure didn’t need someone hanging around just to be … what? Happy? He’d always liked being on his own and guiltily recalled how it had been a relief when his ill-considered and mercifully brief marriage had ended. So, yeah, it was a _good_ thing to imagine having the loft back as his own personal space again. Definitely positive. No question.

Then, why did the place feel so damned empty all of a sudden?

And why did he have this hollowness inside, like a kid whose best friend had died or something?

Rolling his shoulders, Jim told himself it was just the unexpectedness of the whole thing. He’d just been caught off balance and once it all really sank in, he’d feel good about Blair’s decision to take off. Nodding soberly to himself, he decided that it was just the shock, nothing more.

Certainly not loneliness, not when he hadn’t had time to get lonely yet. Couldn’t be because … because somehow he’d never imagined Blair would actually leave. Leave him. Alone.

Swallowing, Jim shut down the feelings of abandonment he didn’t want to have or deal with. Such emotions were childish, pure and simple. No, he’d just been caught by surprise, that was all. No more tests, his home his own, Blair’s confidence that he could handle things just fine – those were the important messages. Like the kid had said, even if, when, Sandburg moved out and stopped working with him, they’d still be friends, right?

Slouching despondently, Jim scrubbed his face and wondered why that just didn’t seem good enough, why the idea held no sense of consolation.

“Because you’re an idiot, Ellison,” he muttered disparagingly before draining the last of the beer. “That’s why.” He sighed as he stood to again cross the room and pick up the phone. Punching in the familiar number, trying hard not to feel both annoyed and bereft, telling himself that Blair was only giving him what he’d been indicating with increasing stridency that he wanted, he leaned against the kitchen island as he waited for Sandburg to answer.

* * *

When the insistent brill of the cell phone shattered the silence of the small cottage, Sandburg frowned at the break in his concentration. He’d been deep into his new paper, unaware of his surroundings, and he squinted against the glare of the setting sun on the ocean. Reaching for the phone on the desk beside him, he automatically checked the caller’s number and went still. The phone rang again, jerking him into action.

“Hey, man,” he answered, his throat tight though he strove for nonchalance. “How was your day?”

 _“Pretty dull, until I got home and spotted your note on the table,”_ Jim replied dryly. _“Where are you?”_

“Port Townsend. I got lucky and found a great place right on the ocean. You’ll have to come down some weekend and check it out,” Sandburg said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster while he tried to get a grip on Jim’s tone. “Uh, I guess I left a little suddenly,” he added more tentatively. “But I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

 _“Uh huh,”_ Jim grunted. _“I’m not big on surprise tests,”_ he went on, his tone neutral, _“but I guess it makes sense to see how things go before … before you find another place to live.”_

“Yeah, well, that’s what I thought,” Blair agreed, feeling awkward. “So, um, you’re okay with this?”

There was a pause, and then Ellison said tightly, _“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”_

“No reason,” Sandburg hastened to respond. Bowing his head as he turned away from the blazing sun shining through the window, he waited to see if Jim had anything else to say.

 _“So, uh, you think the other guys have figured out the senses,”_ Jim queried just before the silence between them became unbearable.

“Well, I could be wrong about that, but they’re detectives, and pretty good ones,” Blair sighed with an unconscious shrug. “Be pretty strange if they haven’t, don’t you think?”

 _“Maybe, I don’t know,”_ Jim muttered, sounding distracted. _“Guess I’ve never thought about it.”_

The silence again stretched.

“You’re worried about the paper, aren’t you?” Blair observed then, the question essentially rhetorical. “Don’t be,” he went on as he glanced at the computer screen. “It’s all going to be okay, Jim. I wouldn’t do anything to betray your confidence, you know that, right?”

 _“Yeah,”_ Jim sighed. _“I know.”_ After a moment he added, _“Well, I’m bushed. Woke up with a headache and still got it, so I think I’ll take some aspirin and go to bed.”_

“Okay. I … uh, thanks for calling, man. I hope you feel better tomorrow.”

 _“Thanks,_ ” Ellison murmured. _“Look, give me a call once in a while, okay? Let me know how things are going?”_

“Absolutely,” Blair agreed readily. “And you let me know how you’re doing. Like I said, if this, um, test doesn’t work out as expected, I don’t mind coming back early, and I’ll be in Cascade from time to time anyway, especially during the exam period the week after next.”

 _“Right, okay, well, you know you can stay here when you’re in town, right?”_ Jim rejoined, his tone uncertain.

“Yeah, well, about that,” Sandburg hesitated, wanting so very much to say of course he’d stay at the loft, but he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to draw out the painful and inevitable process of extricating himself from Jim’s life and home. “The whole idea of this ‘test’ is to give you a good, solid break to see how things go. How ‘bout I call when I get into town, and we can get together for dinner or something and talk about arrangements then, okay?”

 _“Don’t get all fanatical about this test, Chief,”_ Ellison grated. _“Until further notice, this place is still your home. Just let me know when to expect you, so I can be sure the fridge is stocked.”_

“Okay, man, thanks,” Blair capitulated, smiling a little wistfully. When his friend didn’t respond, he murmured quietly, “You need to take care of that headache and get some sleep. I’ll be in touch. G’night, Jim.”

 _“G’night, Chief.”_

Blair closed the connection and sat staring at the phone. Jim hadn’t sounded happy, but he hadn’t sounded unhappy, either. He was still probably distracted by everything that had happened with Veronica, and having a headache that wouldn’t quit couldn’t help.

His half-formed hope – that Jim hadn’t called earlier because he’d been disturbed by the idea of his moving out and had wanted time to get his thoughts together – dissipated. Though Jim’s insistence that he stay at the loft was a positive thing, Jim’s tone had been hard and abrupt, even impatient, but maybe that was only because Jim was tired and it really didn’t make a whole lot of sense to stay somewhere else when a lot of his stuff was still there. But, basically, it seemed that Jim didn’t care much about the fact that he’d left so abruptly. Didn’t seem at all upset or sorry that he’d left, or worried about being on his own. Was probably just relieved.

God, that hurt.

Blair shook his head and straightened his shoulders. “Get over it,” he told himself sternly. The first, most basic truths that he’d learned as a child were that nothing lasted forever, everything changed, and life was about moving on, even when he didn’t want to and wished with all his heart that he could stay. The truth he’d first learned about his own nature was that he had to keep busy, keep his mind too active to hear his heart’s lament over the inescapable realities of life. Swallowing, he determinedly turned back to the computer and scrolled to the top of the page to read over what he’d written so far.

 

_**The Mark of Cain** _

__

An Anthropological Analysis of the Motivations for Deviant Behavior in an Average American City

 __

by Blair Sandburg

 __

This document is dedicated to the men and women of the Cascade Police Department,

most particularly the Major Crime team, who accepted me into their midst for more than three years, 

and taught me more than any book ever could about 

life, unconditional love, and the true price and value of liberty, 

through their profound commitment to our collective safety and security. 

__

I am especially grateful to Captain Simon Banks, a man of rare ethics,

who granted me the right to observe his team,

and to Detective James Ellison, the most courageous man I’ve ever known.

 _Introduction:_

 _Every culture, every society, even the smallest of communities from the earliest beginnings of life on earth, have had rules to govern individual actions and behaviors for the good of the whole. Whether these rules are conveyed through the recounting of myth and legend or encoded as laws and regulations, the boundaries for ethical conduct and the repercussions from violating those ethics, such as expulsion, ostracism, incarceration or death, are well defined. And yet, the myths and legends of the earliest creation stories also reveal that human beings are wont to break those rules. For example, the Judeo-Christian tradition tells the story of Adam and Eve, who were given a paradise in which to dwell providing they did not eat of the tree of knowledge. But even in this tiny society of two people, the single rule was soon broken, and they were expelled from paradise to an existence that included the need to work to eat and the dangers of illness as well as the reality of death. The story goes on to tell us about their two sons, Cain and Abel, the first siblings on earth. Far from being a tale of brotherly love, Cain jealously murdered his younger brother. This is but one of many creation myths that anchor our beliefs and behaviors as social beings. In Egypt, Seth murdered Horus. Oedipus killed his father in Greece. From the dawn of time, whether because of temptation, jealousy, greed or simply the inability to see beyond one’s own immediate and selfish interest, our mythology warns us that we must guard against our very human predisposition to undertake criminal acts. Accordingly, it behooves us to understand the circumstances and motivations that underlie such antisocial inclinations and behaviors._

 _For more than three years, I have had the opportunity to observe the incidence and impacts of crime in Cascade, Washington, a city of two million people living in a variety of socio-economic conditions. Within the community as a whole there are neighborhoods of very diverse cultures and heritages originating from elsewhere around the world. During these past years, I have seen that crime and criminals exist within the upper class as well as amongst those who are destitute, and within every cultural sub-grouping represented in the city. Indeed, given the mythology, man’s historical record and current world affairs, as well as my observations of this single city as a microcosm of social dynamics, one could speculate that criminal acts – behaviours that are exclusively self-serving and are undertaken beyond the boundaries or realm of ‘rules’ or ‘laws’ – are utterly normal and predictable, perhaps to be more expected than selfless or courageous acts. However, in the course of this discussion, I hope to show that as predictable as these behaviours and antisocial acts may be, it is our collective indifference, our cynicism, and our tolerance for the conditions that breed criminality that are at the root of our plague of lawlessness. We have abandoned our social security and wellbeing to those who stand as sentinels between us and chaos. Our law enforcement personnel serve us well, but we neither honor nor support them. Indeed, too often, we mock them and, worse, consider them to be the enemy…._

 

Blair read on, making small corrections and additions as he went along, long past the point at which the sun sank beyond the horizon in a fiery blaze of riotous colours. Oblivious to the deepening gloom as dusk darkened into night, he again began to write. The soft click of the laptop keys and the whoosh of the incoming tide upon the beach were the only sounds in the little cottage as the hours passed, and the sky began to lighten with the coming dawn.

* * *

Giving up on sleep as a hopeless endeavor, Ellison rose before the sun and went to the gym to work out the tension that ached in his muscles. All night, he’d found himself reflecting on the wholly unsatisfactory conversation with Sandburg, trying to understand why the kid had suddenly decided to avoid returning to the loft – why he’d decided he had to leave in the first place. Oh, sure, they’d quarreled, but still … after all they’d been through, after the friendship they’d forged over years of partnership, what had pushed Blair over the edge, exceeded his limits – made him want to wrap up their work together and get on with their separate lives?

And he’d tried to figure out why it all bothered him so much. Why couldn’t he accept that it only made sense, was the only rational outcome, and that Blair was entirely right to have put some distance between them? Because it sure didn’t feel right.

When Simon stopped by his desk later in the day, seeming to be actively mystified by Sandburg’s continued absence from the PD, he just shrugged and said the kid was busy with stuff from school. It was only a few days later that he was ready to raise the issue of the others possibly suspecting there was more to his success than just good old-fashioned detective work.

“You say Sandburg thinks the others, aside from Connor of course, who knows about the Sentinel stuff – well, that he thinks the others have noticed, figured it out?” Simon clarified soberly, sitting back in his chair as he thought about it. When Jim shrugged bleakly, Banks nodded to himself. “Makes sense, I guess. Never really thought about it but, yeah, I guess I would be surprised if they hadn’t noticed something was up over the past few years. What do you want to do about it?”

“Ignore it?” Jim rasped uncertainly, looking away. “I’m, uh, not ready to talk about it. And they don’t seem to take personal offense by not being included in the ‘secret’, such as it is.”

Banks tugged on his ear, biting his lip as if to hold words back, before replying with a sigh, “It’s your call, Jim. But you might want to think about how to share more of the facts with them. I mean, why not, after all? If they already suspect?”

Shrugging, Jim shook his head. “Not yet. Soon maybe. Once Sandburg has finished his paper, then they can all read it. Would be easier than trying to explain it to them.”

Simon’s gaze narrowed. “His paper? Is that the ‘stuff’ he’s been working on lately, that keeps him so busy that he hasn’t got time to drop in here anymore?”

Jim nodded, his gaze drifting to the floor. “Yeah,” he sighed, and then scrubbed at his face as if unbearably weary. “He thinks it’ll be done in a couple of months.”

“And in the meantime, he’s abandoned you to handle things on your own?” Banks probed, his tone resonating with disappointed anger.

Wincing, the sense of abandonment a little too real and not at all fair, Jim shook his head more vehemently. “No, it’s not like that,” he insisted, for the first time meeting Simon’s concerned gaze. “He says it’s more of a final test, to see how I manage without … without his help on a regular basis. But, uh, he’s willing to help any time I need him, if I do.”

“I see,” Simon murmured thoughtfully. Straightening in his chair, he went on more briskly, “Well, then, I guess it’s time I assigned someone to work with you on a routine basis. We both know you can’t do it all alone. So, Megan? Or Joel?”

Jim licked his lips as his gaze wandered the office. Megan knew his secrets, but he’d never been comfortable working with her. She pushed too hard, maybe was too much like himself. “Joel,” he finally decided. Taggart might not overtly know about his senses, but Jim inherently trusted him more. Still, his jaw tightened in unconscious resistance even of Joel being named his new partner. He had a partner and, deep inside, he didn’t want a different one, didn’t want any other man but Sandburg backing him up. It wasn’t logical and he couldn’t rationalize his feelings, so he didn’t voice them. The plain facts of the matter were that Blair was in the process of moving on and he had to accept that. Didn’t he?

* * *

On the weekend, bored and wanting some distraction from his thoughts and unsettled emotions, Ellison rented one of Nicholas Cage’s movies, ConAir, with the hope that the mindlessness of the rather silly plot would take his mind off things. But, as he watched and listened to the recurring theme exemplified by the title song, ‘How Do I Live Without You?’ he snorted with irritation and flicked off the television and video machine.

Rising to impatiently pull a beer out of the fridge, and to pace with tense agitation across the floor, he rasped fiercely to himself, “It’s crap, all just romantic bullshit.” He’d loved _lots_ of women, from his mother to Carolyn, with Lila and Veronica and others in-between, and he’d managed just fine without them, thank you very much. Sure, it had hurt when his mother had left, and breaking up relationships was never easy, but he’d survived. Everyone survived. _Nobody_ was irreplaceable or people would die of loneliness every damned day. Needing someone that much wasn’t healthy; wasn’t … adult. Made a person vulnerable and dependent. There was no such thing as the kind of limitless love, unconditional and unswerving, lasting forever, that Hollywood portrayed in its fairytales.

But then, out of nowhere and of their own volition, emotions swamped him. Hurt filled him, a deep hollow all-encompassing ache of need, followed by desperate, deliberate denial, and then frustrated despair at what he couldn’t deny, couldn’t sweep away as if the hollow hurt and the aching need didn’t exist. His sense of abject helplessness erupted with no warning into livid rage. Mutely shaking with his effort to control the tempest storming inside, his chest tight with his effort to breathe and tears stinging his eyes, he cursed vehemently and struck out at the inanimate villain that had forced him to feel what he didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to acknowledge. Furiously, he threw the empty beer bottle against the television screen, watching both shatter into uncountable pieces, the force of the bottle’s velocity on impact spraying back tiny shards of glass into the room. Breathing hard, he tried to distract himself from his turbulent, useless emotions by focusing on the light refracting in the myriad splinters of glass into endless, infinite rainbows of blazing colours … and he very nearly let himself go – almost allowed himself to be lost – before he pulled himself back with a physical effort that left him staggering against the sofa for support.

To lose himself so willingly would be a betrayal, not of himself, but of Blair and Blair’s belief in him. His throat tight, he crossed his arms over his chest and bowed his head. _“Damn you, Sandburg,”_ he growled, teeth gritted against the surge of desolate despair. _“Damn you_ for _never_ needing me as much as I need you.”

He was disgusted with himself, his deplorable weakness and vulnerability, his much-hated dependence, but unable to hold the emotion back any longer. As he lifted his eyes to gaze out the balcony doors, deliberately facing the ocean and the shore where Blair now was, he asked timorously, “How do I live without _you_?”

Breathing out a long, shuddering sigh, he wondered if that was why Blair had left. Had Sandburg seen the disgust he felt, his resentment, but never seen the love? Shaking his head, turning away from the setting sun, he went to sweep up the splinters of glass and then he stared mutely at the destroyed television. It was bad enough, he thought, that Sandburg had simply left to do what he’d always intended to do, to write the damned paper and get on with his life. It would have been infinitely worse if he had known how very much he meant, how necessary he was, how much he was indeed loved, and had walked away anyway. Now, _that_ would have been _abandonment_. This … this was just, just … just Sandburg keeping to their original deal; just Blair’s way of giving him his life back, of acknowledging his control and independence.

As if he wanted that old life back.

As if he’d ever not need the partner he trusted more than any other, _wanted_ more than anyone else could ever be wanted, beside him, sharing his life.

Once again drifting to the balcony, gripping the railing with both hands, he stared out to the southwest, toward Blair. Jim wished he could see that far, and could pretend Sandburg wasn’t so far away and moving further away still with every day that passed. If he confessed how he felt, would it change anything? Or would he just be guilting the kid into staying with him, calling upon a commitment that had already gone on far longer than either of them had imagined it would? Stoically sniffing as he blinked stinging eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat, he blew a long breath and stubbornly shook his head. The kid had a right to his own life and his own dreams.

Wouldn’t be right to ask for more – to ask for a lifetime.

Besides … it was too great a risk to open up that much, to leave himself _that_ vulnerable.

There was no way he could imagine that Blair would agree to stay with him indefinitely, or would be willing to give up his own imagined future in academia, a life filled with endless research and world travel to pursue knowledge. Nor could he really imagine that Sandburg would be interested in an aging, surly cop as a life partner.

And if Blair left knowing how much Jim wanted him to stay, _that_ would hurt more deeply than Jim was prepared to contemplate.

Heaving another sigh, Ellison told himself to get a grip. Resolutely determined to force himself into some semblance of normalcy, he went back inside to turn out the lights and go to bed. But, once there, sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

Though the sun had set nearly an hour before, the early evening fog had dissipated, leaving the sky above crystal clear. Stars glittered hard and cold, like diamonds carelessly scattered over black velvet, and the moon hung like a great silver ball over the ocean. There was more than enough light to see his way along the beach, and his path was edged by the phosphorescent illumination of the foaming waves that rippled and surged up onto the sand before nearly silently swishing back into the sea. He was tired after a busy Saturday evening in the Starbucks’ café. Hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the coolness of the night after the heat of the day, the wind blowing in over the water catching his hair and lifting it from his shoulders to whip erratically, if softly, across his face, Blair slowly trudged along the beachfront toward the little cottage.

Skirting around an outcrop of rock, he slowed and stopped to plop down on a boulder. Facing out to sea, he scrubbed his face with his hands, and then raked his fingers through his hair to pull the blowing curls away from his eyes. Closing his eyes, Blair took a deep breath of the tangy salt air, letting it fill him before slowly exhaling. Taking several more, slow, deep breaths, he consciously focused on his taut muscles, willing them to relax. Lifting his eyes to the dark horizon below the sparkling stars, he found himself reflecting upon how much more Jim would be able to see, and wondering for at least the thousandth time how differently his Sentinel saw the world around them.

“Jim,” he murmured, a wisp of sound on the night wind. He listened to the silence around him in an effort to clear his mind. There was only the rush of waves upon the shore, and the rustle of leaves in the trees behind him. What more would Jim be able to hear? Blowing out a long breath, shaking his head, Blair looked up into the night sky, out into the vast galaxy. For so very long now, Jim had been the centre of his personal universe, had come to mean almost everything to him. His home was Jim’s home. His work was to support Jim and better understand his partner’s senses. His time was spent backing Jim up on Jim’s job. When he went camping or fishing, it was with Jim. When he went to a movie or a basketball game it was, nine times out of ten, with Jim. When he’d died, he recalled with a shiver of memory, his last thought and only regrets had been about Jim. And Jim had called him back from the dead, giving him his life back. He’d been living and breathing Jim Ellison for more than three years and, somewhere along the line, Jim had become his only, his exclusive priority in life, his meaning and purpose of existence.

Helping Jim.

Being with him.

Loving him.

His throat tightened and he crossed his arms against the ache in his chest. He’d lost himself in Jim and Jim’s concerns and needs. But the time had come to try to find himself again, because his life with Jim was ending. For some time now, he’d been getting glimpses, way off in the distance, of the end of their common road. Jim’s need for more space, as exemplified by his trip up to Clayton Falls on his own. Jim’s need to work more with his colleagues than with Blair, a need which seemed to accelerate after Megan had arrived and she’d begun asking uncomfortable questions about just what Blair did around the PD, why Ellison was partnered with a civilian, and about how Jim did what he did. Sandburg knew the questions had made Jim uneasy, made him feel vulnerable in terms of his secret being too close to being exposed. And Jim’s reaction over the first chapter of the diss had driven home how very uncomfortable the older man remained about anything about him or his abilities being written down and exposed to the eyes of others. Yep, the signposts pointing to the end of the road had been cropping up for some time.

Sighing, again pushing errant curls behind his ears, he wondered if he shouldn’t have chosen a different path when they’d returned from Mexico. Maybe that had been the right moment to get his own place and begin the process of moving in a different direction, away from Jim. But he’d thought that his revival at the fountain held some mystical meaning, and maybe, maybe, had been a different sign of sorts, pointing to another path that they could walk together, forever. What kind of power brings a man back from the dead, and for what kind of purpose is that man allowed to live again? For Blair, the mystery and magic of it all seemed to suggest that perhaps his love of Jim, his desire to share Jim’s life, to cherish him, was the right, the only way to go. As if the Universe was giving him some sort of message, telling him to get a clue and come clean about his feelings before it really was too late.

And then he’d seen Jim with Alex on the beach, and the hopes he’d clutched close on the journey to Mexico with Megan shriveled and died. Regardless of any biological imperatives, if Jim could have such desire for the woman who was a wanton murderer, who had even killed _him_ , it was a clear sign that there was no way in hell that Jim loved him in the way he loved Jim. So, yeah, maybe when they’d gotten back, it would have been wiser, healthier, to have gone his own way then. Oh, not sever their friendship. Blair hoped that would never happen. Just … just get a bit of distance, reclaim some of his own space and identity, redefine his purpose in life separate and apart from Jim. Find his own path and remember how to walk it alone.

But he hadn’t had the strength to face giving it all up. Home. Work. How he spent all his free time. Jim.

Still, it had been a mistake to move back in. They grated on one another’s nerves now. Tensions, stemming from so much that was unresolved about Alex and what happened in Mexico, filled the air around them, like wraiths stealing all comfort and repose, leaving only poignant anguish behind. For the last month, they hadn’t talked so much as yelled or snarled at one another until Blair, at least, found it intolerable. Maybe they might have found a way back to the easiness of their friendship, the rapport of their partnership, if Veronica hadn’t moved into town.

But she’d sidled back into Jim’s life and turned it inside out, coming very close to destroying the man.

And she had provided a very clear signal to Blair that he must have misread the signs from the Universe and was most definitely on the wrong road. If Jim would take the word of a woman who had betrayed him before and been out of Jim’s life for at least ten years, over his, when they’d been friends and partners for the last more than three years, well … that said nothing good about the possibilities of their relationship being sustainable, let alone morphing into something else – something Blair wanted so badly that he sometimes wished he had stayed dead rather than come back to a life that would always seem empty without Jim.

But Jim didn’t need him, and pretty clearly didn’t want him sharing any kind of life, let alone a life of committed lovers, as well as being partners at work and best friends all the time.

God, it was hard to let it all go. Wary of even trying to sleep, of those moments in the darkness when his loneliness was most acute and he lost his fragile control over his grief and despair, Blair had kept himself going for the past three days and nights. Evenings, he worked the busy crowd at Starbucks, joking, teasing, and getting to know his colleagues, who were all students on summer break. They made him feel old. Every morning, he spent time with Bob Keating in the gardens, helping the elderly man care for their extensive grounds and then afterward, enjoying the respite of coffee and morning pastries with both Bob and Charlie. Afternoons, and all night, every night, he worked on his new dissertation. And he’d made great progress. The literature review was done and concisely reported, the outline of the new paper had flowed from his fingertips as smoothly as water under a bridge. And he’d already completed the first chapter. Eli would be pleased, and his dissertation review committee would no doubt be relieved that he was finally focused and intent upon finishing his post-doctoral degree. Regardless of whether the Criminology or Psychology departments also granted him doctorates, he knew the Anthropology department had been holding a slot on the fall session open for him, to welcome him officially as a professor among their ranks.

But he couldn’t keep pushing himself this way and he knew it. Getting rundown and falling ill would serve no one’s purpose, least of all his own. He had a life to live, contributions to make, and he was determined to be the best man he could be, to make his existence in this world worthwhile and meaningful – to pay back the Universe for giving him a second chance at life.

Only … what kind of life would that be?

Once again his eyes sought the stars, as if the solace to the anguish twisting in his heart could be found in the patterns they formed in the night sky. “Detach with love,” he whispered, reminding himself of his mother’s mantra when it came to relationships. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he nodded once to himself. He’d begun that process and just had to get through the occasional visit back in the loft before he moved out for good, hopefully without that continued proximity to Jim tearing him apart. But his gaze lingered on the distant stars, as he asked brokenly, “Only, how do I live without _him_?”

There was no answer from the world around him, unless the response was there all around him: the endless, eternal sea, always changing yet unchanged through the millennia, and the rustle of the leaves behind him, on trees that lived through cycles of life and death, reviving to new splendor year after year. Bleakly, he wondered if the trees missed their leaves once they were gone, or if the new ones made them forget all previous losses. His lips tightened as he bowed his head. The thing was, he didn’t want to forget Jim; anymore, he supposed bleakly, than Jim had wanted to forget Lila or Veronica.

Wearily, he pushed himself to his feet and continued the trek back to the cottage, hoping that he was finally so tired that he would just drop onto the bed, already asleep. He needed to sleep, deeply and dreamlessly; needed to find some peace in the void of forgotten dreams and dark unknowingness.

* * *

“Ellison! My office!” Simon called out with a loud tone of beleaguered urgency.

Rising from his desk, Jim ambled across the floor to slouch in the doorway, his brow quirked sardonically as he asked with studied innocence, “You called?”

“Get in here,” Banks growled, waving Jim into the office. “We’ve got trouble with a capital ‘T’.” Looking past Ellison, through the glass into the bullpen, he scowled. “Where’s your sidekick? We could use his help on this.”

Stiffening, his gaze drifting away from Simon’s face to dwell on one of the little angel figurines on the desk, Jim replied, “I told you last week, he’s busy on university stuff.”

“Oh, well, yeah, the paper he’s writing. And I guess it’s exam time again, or some damned thing, huh?” Simon muttered as he fingered a report on his desk. “Well, that’s alright, we can catch up with him at Rainier, see if he can offer any insights or introductions.”

His eyes narrowing, Jim frowned in confusion. “Blair’s not at the university,” he said, and then asked, “What’s going on? We got a new case or something?”

“What do you mean he’s not at Rainier?” Banks exclaimed in frustration. “Didn’t you just say he was working on university stuff?” Waving a negligent hand, he went on, “Doesn’t matter. If he’s working at the loft, he can meet us there.”

Grimacing as he shrugged, rolling his eyes to look at the window, Jim revealed grudgingly, “He’s, uh, moved out for a few months.”

“Moved out? Where? Nevermind. I don’t need to know the details right this minute. Just call him and tell him to meet us at his office,” Simon gusted, not having the time to immediately find out what the hell was going on with these two now, but making a mental note to find out why Sandburg had moved out just to write his paper. Didn’t make a lot of sense, in his view. Something else was evidently going on, _again_ , that had his best team at odds with one another.

Growing irritated, Jim retorted, “He’s not in town. Look, if it’s a case, _I’m_ the detective, remember, not Sandburg. So would you mind telling me what’s going on at Rainier?”

Sighing, Simon nodded as he rubbed the back of his neck to loosen tight muscles. “Yeah, okay, sorry. Have you seen the cold case summary about the serial killer who carves some incomprehensible symbol into the bodies of his victims?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” Ellison replied, his shoulders straightening, and his gaze now focused and alert.

“Well, he’s here, in Cascade,” Banks intoned grimly. “His latest victim was found this morning – a pretty coed working on her Masters in psychology. I was hoping Sandburg could give us some ideas on who we might most profitably meet with at the school to begin figuring out who this bastard is and why he’d target her.” Standing, he pulled on his suit jacket and then brushed his nose as he continued, “But since your regular partner is unavailable and Joel is on vacation this week, I suppose I’ll go to the crime scene with you, to nose around.”

Standing to follow his boss out of the office, Jim winced at the reference to his sense of smell. As they moved toward the elevators, Simon probed, “So, how long did you say Sandburg is going to be gone for?”

Jim scratched his cheek. “He said it might take a couple of months, anyway, to finish his work. But he’ll be coming to town, probably on a regular basis. I expect him on the weekend, ‘cause he’s got to supervise and mark the exams for his students next week.”

“You should have told me he was out of town, Jim,” Simon sighed. “What if we needed him in a hurry?”

Resigned, Jim tilted his head in acceptance of the rebuke as the doors slid open in front of them, and they entered the elevator. “He’s keeping his cell phone charged and he’s not all that far away.” Banks shook his head but didn’t say anything more on the ride down to the garage.

On the drive toward the residence on the university’s grounds, Simon decided to garner what information he could about the situation between Ellison and Sandburg before they got immersed in the case. Glancing at Jim’s stony profile, he asked, “So, how long has the kid been gone?”

“Since the middle of last week.”

“And you were going to tell me this when, exactly?”

Shrugging, Jim looked out the side window. “Soon.”

“Uh huh,” Simon muttered. “What’s this all about, Jim? What’s going on?”

“Like I said, he’s finally writing his dissertation. If everything works out with my senses while he’s gone, then he’s calling the _experiment_ a success,” Ellison returned, an edge of bitterness overlaying his tone of studied neutrality.

Banks’ brow furrowed. “Sounds like Sandburg is getting ready to move on.”

“Sounds like,” Jim agreed flatly.

“You okay with this?” Simon asked tentatively, with another quick glance as he pulled into the street of low cost student housing that bordered Rainier’s grounds.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” Ellison grated, still not making eye contact.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Captain drawled sarcastically. “Maybe because you’d rather give up your right arm than lose that kid.”

Jim flinched, stiffening into defensive rigidity, and then he sagged, as if the stuffing had been pulled out of him. “He’s got a right to move on with his life, Simon,” he muttered with a despondent shrug, evidently deciding it was pointless to pretend Blair’s impending departure from his life didn’t cut deep.

“Have you talked to him?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Ri-i-ight,” Simon sighed gustily. Pulling into a parking space on the street in front of the two-story stucco apartment building, he turned to Jim before getting out of the car. Reaching across, he gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Talk to him, Jim,” he urged. “Tell him how you feel.”

Shaking his bowed head, Jim replied wearily, “Doesn’t matter. We had a deal, and he’s lived up to his end of it.” Opening the door beside him, he pulled away from Simon’s grip to get out of the car.

“You won’t know if it matters or not, unless you talk to him,” Banks growled impatiently, insistently. Climbing out of the vehicle, and walking with Ellison toward the entrance, he repeated, “Talk to him. What have you got to lose? See if he’d consider a job with us once he finally graduates.”

Jim didn’t answer as he held the plate glass door open, and then followed his boss inside. When the patrolman standing watch – outside the victim’s apartment partway down the long narrow hallway – waved them in his direction, both men shifted their focus to the job at hand.

The cop on duty told them the Medical Examiner had been and gone, and the Crime Scene Team had been there for about a half hour. Jim and Simon stayed out of the technicians’ way as they studied the small, studio apartment. Both men shook their heads mutely when they noted the wide-flung panels of the window, probably opened to catch some slight breeze during their unusually hot weather. The murderer would have had no trouble gaining entry and, given the thick growth of bushes outside, could have done so unseen, especially in the middle of the night. Crossing the room, Jim poked his head out the window, to study the ground beneath, but it was rock hard from the recent heatwave and there were no lingering footprints in the soil. He then visually scanned the area inside and outside, but didn’t see any samples of hair or threads of clothing that the killer might have left behind. He sniffed guardedly, wary of the stench of death, and his lip curled when he was unable to pick up anything more, other than the residue of her cloying perfume.

Turning his attention to the victim lying on her right side in a tangled heap of loose limbs, his lips thinned as his expression flattened against his instinctive anger and regret for what had happened there. Tamara Thompson had been a pretty young woman, though her porcelain complexion was marred by the ugly mark carved into her left cheek. Loose, blond curls fell over bright blue eyes that now stared flat and empty at a world that no longer concerned her. She’d been badly beaten, then strangled and left sprawled on the floor between the desk and the bed. She was wearing a cotton nightgown that was hitched up but he could detect no lingering scent of assault; from the disarray of the linens, it appeared as if she had been in the bed, perhaps already asleep, when the attack occurred. A broken alarm clock, lying smashed on the floor, had stopped at 3:13 AM.

Simon studied the desk, and found the course list the victim had helpfully taped to the wall over the phone. “You done with this?” he asked, waving to the desk and the typed schedule. One of the technicians nodded. He leafed through her appointment calendar, took the schedule from the wall, and quickly checked through the desk drawers but found nothing more than the usual detritus of a student’s life. Turning to Jim, he asked, “You getting anything?”

Shaking his head, Ellison chewed on his lower lip. He again scanned the small room, before once more lowering his gaze to study the victim. But his gaze narrowed when he spotted a minute trace of blood under one broken fingernail, indicating that she had fought back. Not much, but maybe enough. He knelt and squinted, opening his sight further, and was sure there was the minutest trace of a fiber that looked like black cotton. Biting his lip, he wondered why she’d done so little damage given how desperately hard she had probably struggled. Given the lack of any residual evidence at other crime scenes, he concluded the killer had probably been wearing gloves and clothing to protect his arms, maybe even his face. But this victim may have fought hard enough to get past a mask or to tear a shirt. Poor kid; she might never have known who had come out of the darkness to steal her life away. As at all the other murder scenes in other towns and cities across the country, the murderer didn’t seem to have left much of anything of himself behind. Looking over his shoulder, he caught the attention of one of the technicians and directed, “Bag her hands. I think there’s some residue under her nails.”

Turning back to the cop at the doorway, Banks asked, “What about witnesses? Anybody see or hear anything?”

“No, sir,” the patrolman answered. “It’s the break between the start of exams and summer session. The building is practically empty. She was the only resident along this hallway, and the student in the room above on the front corner spent the night with her boyfriend.”

“Who found the body?”

“A friend of hers, Emily Johnson, stopped by to meet her for breakfast. She said she was surprised and concerned when there was no answer to her knock, so she went around and peered in the window. And saw the body.”

“Okay,” Simon sighed. Lifting the sheet of paper in his hand, he said to Jim, “I found her course schedule. Let’s see if we can find out anything from her professors.”

A quick visit to the Administration Building garnered them the directions to the offices of the five academics listed on her schedule, as well as the address of her parents in Tacoma. Leaving the car in the parking lot, they strolled across the grounds to a building they’d both become familiar with over the years: Hargrove Hall, which hosted the departments of Psychology, Sociology, Criminology and Anthropology.

“You think Blair knew her?” Banks mused.

“Maybe,” Ellison replied with a shrug, and then refocused on the list of classes that Simon had handed to him. “She was taking an interesting set of courses.”

Simon nodded as he reviewed the five subjects in his mind. “Pysch Testing, Profiling and Analysis, Clinical Psychology, and Counseling Techniques, all in the Psychology Department, and then the two others. The Deviant Mind, from Criminology, and Society’s Outcasts, a course in Anthropology. Looks like she planned to work in the criminal justice system as a therapist or something.”

“Or something,” Jim grunted as he slowed to let Simon enter the building first.

They began with the psychology professors, but were able to garner little from the first two beyond the fact that she’d been a serious, talented student and her death was a tragedy. The third offered little more. They were about to take their leave of Professor Nancy Hendricks, a plump and cheerful senior citizen, when she interjected, “Detective Ellison? Aren’t you the person Blair Sandburg has been working with?”

“Yes, I am,” he allowed with a slight frown.

Smiling pleasantly for the first time during their interview with her, she nodded as she went on, “I thought I recognized your name. Blair’s taking the Testing and Profiling course this year. If he keeps on picking up psychology courses like he’s been doing the last three years, he’ll be able to complete his PhD after the next session. Brilliant young man. Rumor is he’s finally going to finish his dissertation. About time – you, and I suppose Captain Banks as well, have been taking too much of his time. We’d gotten worried that he might abandon us for a career in law enforcement.” She laughed lightly and shook her head, as if finding the possibility ridiculously inconceivable. “Working in the real world can have its seductions, but we need men like him at Rainier. Ethical but not stodgy about it. Intensely curious and so competent. We’re all looking forward to him finishing up his PhD – Anthro is going to have to fight for his time on the course roster. My department has been trying to get him to switch his major for years.”

“I didn’t know he was still taking courses,” Simon observed when Jim didn’t offer any comments.

“Oh, yes,” she enthused. “Unlike most students who only do the minimal required, Blair has been maintaining more than a full course load as well as teaching his classes. Since beginning his time with the Cascade Police Department, he’s been focusing particularly on courses that provide him with insights on the choices people make, how they rationalize deviant acts, and so on. I suppose it all has to do with gaining a better understanding of the criminals he’s been exposed to with you.”

“I suppose,” Jim agreed, coming to his feet. “Thank you for your time.”

“Blair was in Tammy’s class. He may have a better idea of who her friends were, than I do,” she offered as she stood to shake their hands. Sobering once again, she added, “I hope you catch whoever it was. She was a charming young woman, very bright. The world is less without her.”

As they made their way upstairs to the Criminology Department, Simon asked, “Did you know he was taking courses?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jim replied stiffly. “I thought he was just finishing up his PhD in Anthropology.”

“Could be good news, Jim. Sounds like he might well be interested in a job with the Cascade PD,” Simon chuckled.

But Ellison shook his head. “You heard her. Sandburg’s just curious, that’s all, and he’s racking up the credits for a multiple doctorate. He’s never said anything about being interested in staying with the PD.”

They found the office of Dr. Gerald Raines. The professor, a tall, well-muscled, jean-clad academic in his late forties, waved them in when they knocked on the doorframe. They introduced themselves and sat down uninvited to ask their questions, only to discover that Dr. Raines could add little to their knowledge about the victim or her acquaintances. Jim studied the man, noting a superficial scratch on his face and wondering if that what was raising the hackles on the back of his neck. His gaze dropped briefly to the man’s hands, clasped on the desk in front of him. There were very slight, scarcely visible bruises around his wrists and thumbs. He chewed thoughtfully on his inner lip and his head tilted, honing in on the professor’s heartbeat as he observed casually, “Cut yourself shaving, professor?”

Startled, the man unconsciously reached to finger the small wound, and then he shrugged. “My cat sometimes objects to being petted,” he explained off-handedly. He looked preoccupied for a moment as he studied Jim, and then mused curiously, “Detective _Ellison_? You wouldn’t be the detective Blair Sandburg’s been following around, would you? _Jim_ Ellison.”

“That’d be me,” Jim confirmed. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason in particular,” Raines replied, his tone cool and remote. “Blair talks about you, sometimes. Seems to admire you. Bright lad, that Sandburg.” The professor paused, and then added reflectively, “Brilliant, actually. He’s got more publications to his name already than most seasoned professors do in a lifetime. One of the best lecturers in the school, too, at least according to the student feedback forms. Bit of a legend in his own time around here. I hear he’s expected to finish his dissertation this summer. If he finally gets his doctorate, he’s being tagged to give the course and the senior seminar I’ve been giving these last two years.”

“How do you happen to know Blair?” Banks asked. “I thought he was an anthropologist. Why would he be giving courses in criminology?”

“Oh, I would have thought you’d know, especially as he’s been working with your department for, what is it? Going on four years now? Blair took my course this past semester – same class as Tammy, actually. In the past three years, he’s apparently already scored his masters in both Criminology and Psychology, and picked up enough post-graduate credits in our department that he’s nearly completed the requirements for his PhD in Crim, as well as Anthro. I’ve been invited to join his dissertation committee as it looks like the one paper may serve both faculties.”

“That so?” Banks murmured thoughtfully, with a casual glance at the scratch on the man’s left cheek, close to his ear, as he stood. “I don’t know when he’d find the time for all these courses given how much time he’s spent around the PD.”

Raines shrugged. “Blair’s a genius,” he said dismissively, with the slightest trace of bitterness, as if stating a fact so well-known it was tedious and scarcely bore mentioning. “He absorbs information like sponges absorb water. Reads at lightning speed, remembers everything, writes almost as fast, whizzes through exams – I doubt he even studies for them. People of his intellect often require less sleep than the rest of us, so that also gives him more hours in the day to pursue his interests.”

“Uh huh,” Simon grunted, beginning to feel disconcerted by the accolades accorded his civilian observer, a kid he’d considered more nuisance than anything else a lot of the time, and wanted to keep in the department more for his assistance to Ellison than for what he might contribute in his own right. “Well, thank you for your time, Professor. If we think of anything else, we’ll get back to you.”

As they ambled down the hall toward the elevators, Jim reflected quietly, “All university towns.”

“What?” Simon asked, startled out of his own thoughts.

“Sandburg’s note on the serial killer cold case summary,” Ellison replied. “All the cases have occurred in towns or cities that have universities.”

“Wonder if Raines really has a cat,” Simon mused reflectively, thinking of the blood Jim had spotted under the girl’s fingernail and smiling coldly at the thought of DNA testing.

“I wonder how long he’s been in Cascade,” Jim replied, his tone hard. “Something about him put my teeth on edge.”

Simon nodded in agreement although, other than the scratch, there’d been nothing to suggest they’d just spent time with a vicious killer. Gut instincts weren’t always right. “Check him out,” he muttered as they entered the elevator.

“I plan to,” Ellison grunted.

Back on the first floor of the building, they made their way to the office of the last professor on their list. “Elijah Stoddard,” Jim muttered, wondering why the name sounded familiar. And then he remembered. This was the guy who had offered Sandburg the chance to join a field expedition to Borneo a couple years previously. Blair had said Stoddard was his mentor. He grimaced to himself as he thought it was maybe a good thing the kid was out of town and had an alibi. The way he kept cropping up in the victim’s classes could have otherwise raised the uncomfortable, if remote, possibility that he should be treated as a suspect. Not that Ellison would ever believe Sandburg would kill anyone, let alone be the serial killer who left behind that distinctive mark on his victims.

“You know him?” Simon asked as they neared the professor’s office.

“Nope, but he knows Sandburg,” Jim replied dryly.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Banks countered with arch humour. “Honestly, Jim – did you know Blair is so highly regarded here at Rainier? I mean, I know the kid’s bright. But a genius?”

Shaking his head as they neared Stoddard’s office, Jim answered, “Never thought about it, actually. He’s always going on about one theory or another, well, you’ve heard him. Never stops. I stopped listening all that closely years ago.”

“Me, too,” Simon muttered, thinking of the times he’d quelled Blair’s constant tendency to share information like a fountain spews out water. The kid wasn’t a cop, was only a student, so he hadn’t given a lot of credence to Sandburg’s ideas or opinions. Now he wondered if he should have been paying closer attention.

Stoddard’s office door was closed and there was no answer to their knock. They were just about to leave when a tall, elderly man strode toward them with deceptively youthful vigor. “Looking for me?” he called out, shifting a stack of files under one arm as he fished in his pocket for a key to the door. “I’m Eli Stoddard.”

Banks agreed that they were, and introduced himself and Ellison.

The professor surveyed them both with astute eyes, and then led them inside. “You’re here about Tammy’s murder,” he postulated briskly, setting the files on his desk and then sitting behind it.

“That’s right,” Simon affirmed, taking one of the two chairs facing the desk, while Jim claimed the other. “We’re hoping you might be able to give us some information on her associates, anything that might give us a lead or two in tracking down her killer.”

Sighing, Stoddard replied regretfully, “Unfortunately, I didn’t know the girl well. She’s only taken the one course with me. So far as I noticed, she seemed, I don’t know, quiet, studious. Did good work.”

Resigned to the lack of information they were getting from any of the professors, Banks grimaced. They’d have to go through the student lists for all the courses, looking for a classmate who might know her better. Not that all that work would necessarily get them a step closer to identifying her killer. The probability was that she’d been chosen virtually at random. Setting the subject of the victim aside, he couldn’t resist observing, “I understand you know Blair Sandburg.”

“Yes, I do. Very well,” Stoddard replied genially. “I’ve been his faculty adviser for years, and I chair his dissertation committee. You, of course, are the gentlemen he works with downtown.”

Jim studied the man warily, wondering what he knew or didn’t know about his sentinel abilities. Apparently aware of the dubious stare, the professor added, “I’m very glad, frankly, that Blair is finally focusing on the completion of his dissertation. He was stalled for a long time because we couldn’t devise a way for him to absolutely safeguard, in perpetuity, the identity of his subject. Leave it to Blair to come up with what is probably the only workable solution.”

“So … there’s no way anyone will know the identity of his source of information?” Jim clarified, his tone carefully neutral.

“About sentinels? No way, whatsoever, Detective,” Eli assured him blandly. “He’s never even revealed the information to me and now, well, as you probably both know, it’s no longer an issue.” Glancing from Jim to Simon, he went on with more feeling, “I don’t mind telling you that I was a bit worried about Blair. Afraid he might be seduced away by the adventure of his work with you. He’s certainly been very enthusiastic about it, and highly complimentary in anything he has to say about the two of you. I wasn’t at all happy when he turned down a chance to earn advanced credit by joining my field expedition team two years ago – worried me, that did, about where his priorities were at the time, especially when he also began to focus more of his attention on criminology and psychology. We’ve been wanting to nail him down and get him appointed to faculty for a few years now, but he hasn’t been in any hurry to complete his thesis, well, until last week, anyway. Now he seems to be back on track. The boy is a phenomenon, one of the brightest minds of his generation, and already gaining a solid reputation in our field. Probably going to get at least a double PhD, and his doctorate in psychology won’t be far behind. Given his publication record, and his standing as an outstanding lecturer as well as researcher, he’ll be granted tenure almost immediately to preclude any other school, let alone any other possible employer, from trying to snatch him away from us. I’ve, uh, been grooming him, you might say, to take over for me when I retire and I expect him to be the leader of our field worldwide before he’s forty. I think the Regents of the University are also watching him as potential Chancellor material somewhere down the road.”

“Everyone we’ve met certainly seems to think very highly of him,” Simon observed dryly.

“Of course they do,” Stoddard affirmed. “He’s a rare individual, extremely gifted and yet highly personable, even humble, and as talented with administration and teaching as he is with research and publication. Very well-rounded and adept.” Chuckling wryly to himself, he smiled as he reflected, “He certainly came out ahead on that confrontation with Chancellor Edwards last month. But then, I’m sure you already know all that, how talented he is, how brilliant, having worked with him for so long now. Well,” he went on briskly, looking at the ornate clock on his desk, “I’ve taken too much of your busy time, and I have to get to a faculty meeting. Was there anything else?”

“No, thank you, Professor,” Banks replied coolly as they stood and shook hands, feeling as if he were facing an adversary of sorts and not much liking it. The man had sure gone out of his way to let them know he, with the help of the university, would present an attractive offer for a continuing career in academia to Sandburg; Stoddard might as well have hung a ‘no trespassing’ sign around the kid’s neck. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable as he strode out of the building with Ellison, Simon reflected on how he’d been taking Sandburg for granted for years, never imagining that the grad student wouldn’t jump at a job offer from the PD. Now, for the first time, he was beginning to wonder if he’d been assuming too much.

The fact that Blair had only recently begun to refocus his efforts on completing his dissertation didn’t escape him, either. The last few months of his association with the police department hadn’t held any joy for the kid, that was for damned sure. First, there’d been Sandburg’s confrontation with Jim over Barnes, and then his death in the fountain, Simon thought with an evil look at the offending pool as they walked by. That, followed by the disturbing journey to Mexico, and then the way he and Jim had been brusque with the younger man, virtually shutting him out of the last couple of cases, had probably all contributed to Blair’s apparently sudden decision to finish his degree. If he _had_ been interested in the possibility of something with the PD, which his courses over the last few years might well indicate, was that interest now defunct?

“We found out more about Sandburg than we did about the victim,” he groused unhappily.

“That we did,” Jim agreed, his tone clipped, sounding irritated.

As they approached the car, Banks asked, “So, what’s this great new idea Sandburg has about protecting your identity in his paper?”

Opening the car door, Jim shook his head. “I have no idea; didn’t know it was an issue. I just assumed he’d refer to me as ‘the subject’, and leave it at that. That’s how I was presented in the first chapter I saw a couple months ago.”

“He hasn’t discussed it with you?” Simon asked, surprised.

“Nope,” Ellison returned as he slid into the seat. Scratching his cheek, he murmured darkly, “It occurs to me that I don’t know much of anything about his work here.” Glancing sideways at Simon, he asked with biting sarcasm, “Still think he might be interested in a job downtown?”

Sighing as he switched on the ignition, Banks shook his head morosely. “You ever get the feeling that you missed the boat, and you didn’t even know there was a ship waiting at the dock?”

“Lately?” Jim replied tightly, turning stiffly to look out the side window. “All the time.”

* * *

Munching with little appetite on a broccoli floret as he read the notes on the laptop screen, Blair swallowed hastily when his cell phone brilled sharply in the silence of early afternoon. Quickly checking the caller ID before answering, he took a breath and flipped the phone open. “Jim, hey, man, is everything alright?”

 _“What? I can’t call unless I’ve got a problem?”_ Ellison replied sardonically.

“No, man, no. Just surprised to hear from you, I guess,” Sandburg replied quickly, hoping a flurry of words would cover the too rapid tattoo of his heart. “So, uh, how’re things going?”

 _“Well, actually, I’m on a case, and I think you know the victim,”_ Jim returned with careful deliberation, and Blair understood his friend was giving him time to assimilate that there might be bad news to impart.

“What? A murder case? Who?” Blair exclaimed anxiously, stumbling over his words.

 _“Grad student by the name of Tamara Thompson,”_ his friend replied. _“She was in a couple of the same classes as you.”_

“Oh, God,” Blair gasped, shocked. “Tammy?” He looked out at the rolling sea, trying to find a sense of equilibrium. “Ah, shit, Jim,” he murmured sadly. “She was a really nice person, you know? What happened to her?”

 _“How well did you know her?”_ Jim asked, evading the ‘what’ for the moment. _“Date her?”_

“Nah, uh-uh,” Sandburg sighed. He hadn’t been interested in, or even had the time for, dating in the last year – not that his sentinel had noticed that he’d pretty much stopped socializing with others. “Just knew her in class, had a few beers with other students in the pub once in a while. Why? Am I suspect or something?”

 _“No, Chief, no, not at all,”_ Ellison hastened to assure him. _“We’re just trying to get a handle on her friends, see if anyone has any ideas of why she might have been targeted, that’s all.”_

“Targeted?” Blair echoed with a frown. “So the murder wasn’t personal? What happened?” he asked again.

 _“You remember that serial killer, the one in the quarterly cold case summaries; the one that apparently stopped killing nearly two years ago?”_ Jim replied. _“You noted he hits university towns.”_

“I remember,” Sandburg nodded grimly. “He killed her? Left the distinctive mark?”

 _“Uh huh. I just verified it’s the same disfiguration. Sorry, Chief, sounds like you liked her.”_

“Yeah, I did, but I didn’t know her all that well,” Blair returned. “I can give you the names of some of her friends but this guy seems to hit at random, so it’s not likely they’ll know much either.”

Jim took the names from him, and then asked, _“What can you tell me about Gerald Raines?”_

“Gerry?” Blair clarified, surprised by the request. “Well, he’s a pretty good prof, more into lecturing as a specialist in his field than research or writing. Kinda dour. His course is about serial killers and what makes them tick. Why?”

 _“He’s got a scratch on his face,”_ Jim replied wryly, knowing the small injury wasn’t a significant clue. _“So far, that’s all we’ve got on the case, though we might get lucky with a small skin and blood sample found under the vic, er, Tammy’s fingernail – if we find anyone to try a match with. As usual, the guy was careful not to leave any clues behind.”_

Blair shook his head at the exceedingly weak circumstantial link. “A scratch? O-kay. Well, let’s see, I’ve got his curriculum vitae around here somewhere, with my course notes. I’ll dig it out for you and bring it tomorrow when I go back to Cascade. Uh, about all I remember is that he doesn’t linger at any one school for long, but moves around, giving senior seminars and stuff like that. I guess he’s been at Rainier for a couple of years or so. You seriously think he’s a suspect? Man, he’s on my diss committee!”

 _“So I heard,”_ Jim grunted in a tone that left Blair wondering what else he’d heard. _“I’d like the info on where he’s been ASAP, okay? We need something more than a scratch to justify a DNA test.”_

“Sure, okay, I’ll call you back as soon as I find it,” Sandburg agreed. “You seriously think he’s a suspect?”

 _“I don’t know, Chief. The guy gives me the creeps, but I don’t know why. The killer sure seems to know how not to leave any evidence behind – and the fact that he’s a criminologist specializing in serial killings would mean he knows how to avoid detection. Just get me the background info, and we’ll see if there’s a match with where this killer has struck in the past.”_

“I’m on it,” Blair affirmed soberly. “You say he gives you the creeps? Heart rate up? Respirations shallow? Something like that, that you picked up on, sorta subconsciously, maybe? Slight scent of fear?”

 _“None of the above, Einstein,”_ Jim replied flatly, _“which is what makes me uneasy. Most people that have two big cops descend upon their place of work, with news that someone they know has been murdered, are a little anxious or distressed. It’s normal. This guy didn’t react at all. Cool as a cucumber. It’s not natural. Weird, even. But try taking that into court. If he is the guy, we’ve got to get something solid to hook him on, some reason to push for testing other than I didn’t like him much. By the way, do you know if he’s got a cat?”_

“Cat? Yeah, two of them. A calico and a black one,” Blair answered slowly. “Oh, I get it. The scratch.”

 _“How do you know what kind of cats he’s got?”_ Jim queried sharply.

“Well, he’s one of my profs and on my thesis committee, Jim,” Sandburg explained. “I’ve gotten to know him fairly well, er, sort of, not that he’s all that easy to know. But I’ve been over to his apartment a few times. He treats me a bit like a kid brother, encourages my interest in criminology.”

 _“You think he could be a killer?”_

Blair shrugged and sighed. “I have no idea, man. That’s the point, isn’t it? The worst of them look and act just like anybody else. Normal. Unremarkable. Like Lash, right? We didn’t suspect him when we first met him.”

 _“Right,”_ Jim sighed, as if the memory of Lash pained him. _“Call me as soon as you find that document.”_

“Give me a few minutes. Won’t take long.”

 _“Good,_ ” Jim replied briskly before terminating the call.

Blair blinked at the sudden dial tone and shook his head, though he didn’t take the abrupt dismissal personally. A sentinel after a killer didn’t spend a lot of time on social niceties. Reaching for his backpack, he sorted through his course files and found the document he was looking for. Less than three minutes after Jim had hung up, Sandburg was back on the phone, listing places and dates.

“Jim,” he said tightly, as he ran down the list of past experience quickly, “Gerry has been a consultant with the FBI. How could someone like that be a serial killer and nobody notice?”

 _“Hold on a minute, Chief,_ ” Jim muttered as he reached for the summary data on where the killer had struck before. _“Bingo,”_ he murmured. _“We’ve got a match.”_

“It’s just circumstantial …” Sandburg observed cautiously, not wanting to believe someone he knew was a cold-blooded killer. “Still,” he muttered, thinking about it and trusting Jim’s instincts, “you said he had scratches?”

 _“One. On his face,”_ Ellison replied.

“Motive?” Blair pushed, frowning to himself, unsettled.

 _“Do crazies need motives?”_ Jim returned with dark humour.

“C’mon, man. For one thing, Gerry has never seemed particularly insane,” Blair sighed. “And you know these killers always have some rationale for what they do.”

 _“Sure they do,”_ Jim drawled sarcastically. _“It’s just that they rarely make a whole lot of sense to sane people.”_

Rolling his eyes, Sandburg retorted, “Do you even know any sane people?”

 _“Point taken, Chief. I’ll see what else I can dig up, maybe link another victim. Maybe try to figure out how he selects them.”_

“I’m coming back tonight, Jim,” Blair said, making a quick decision. “After I finish my shift. Should get in around midnight. Don’t shoot me, okay?” He smiled at his friend’s snort of amusement.

 _“Shift?”_

“Yeah. Got a job as evening manager at the local Starbucks on the Beach. Helps pay the rent.”

 _“Oh, right,_ ” Jim murmured, sounding confused, but then he rallied to offer with a more normal tone, _“Okay, see ya later, Junior.”_

After the call ended, Blair stuffed the phone and papers back into his pack and then straightened to stare sightlessly at the sea. “Well, shit,” he grumbled, his lips thinning as he raked his hair off his face. “Just my luck – a serial killer on my diss committee.”

On the bright side, he’d evidently gotten past his angst about whether or not to go back to the loft. If Jim was up against someone as careful and scary as this particular murderer, he’d need all the help he could get. _Well, okay, he doesn’t need the help,_ Blair thought with a grimace. _But I’m not going to stand by while he goes after somebody who kills so often and easily._ Out loud, he castigated himself bitterly. “You’re pathetic, you know that, Sandburg? _Any_ excuse, and you’re chasing back to him. Truly, truly pathetic.” As he began folding clothing into his bag, he kept muttering, “Good thing you already negotiated the next week and a half off. You can’t afford to let a perfectly good job slip through your fingers.”

When the packing was finished, he called Eli to let his mentor know that he had a substantial amount of work done on his new thesis, and arranged to meet the professor in his office the next day to share the documents with him.

* * *

Jim hung up and stared at the phone. Sandburg was paying rent to live somewhere else when he had a perfectly good room in the loft? Well, of course he wouldn’t have found a place for free, but if he’d had to get a job right away, how much time did that leave for his work on the diss? Shaking his head, he promised himself they were going to have a serious talk. It was just plain stupid for Blair to think he had to be somewhere else.

Shifting his attention back to the murder case, he went to brief Simon on the circumstantial relationship between Raines’ résumé and residential locations over the years, and the incidence of other murders by the serial killer. They both knew what they had was thin and, with no idea of what might be the motive that set off each round of killings, far from enough to get a warrant to bring the man in to have DNA testing.

However, they _did_ have enough to warrant covert surveillance of the professor.

With luck, if their gut feelings were right and not way out in left field, they might catch him in the act of stalking and attacking the next victim, and save that person’s life.

When Jim returned to his desk, he began telephoning the law enforcement contacts listed in the other cities on the cold case summary. Before they brought in the FBI, particularly since Raines was one of their consultants, he wanted to see if they could make any links between the victims, particularly the students and the teachers that had been killed, and Dr. Gerald Raines.

* * *

“Makes sense to me, Eli. Thanks for giving me a heads up,” Dr. Gerald Raines said affably before terminating the conversation. Staring at the phone, his lips thinned and he felt rage flare, anger so piercing that he was nearly trembling with it.

Drumming his fingertips on the desk to alleviate some of his fierce emotion, he swallowed hard and tried to slow his breathing. He needed to think clearly about his next steps. When he’d been informed that his contract probably wouldn’t be renewed, he’d known he’d have to act or once again be forced into hunting for a new position elsewhere. God, he loathed these wunderkinds who made it all look so easy, who published regularly to high acclaim, garnering approbation that all his knowledge and his expertise, his skill in the classroom and through several consults with the FBI, never seemed to earn. What made publishing so damned essential, so much better than simply being one of the national authorities on serial murderers? How many times had institutions pushed him aside for someone younger, someone more ‘dynamic’? The best he’d ever been able to do, despite all his efforts, was delay the inevitable. Removing a current rival only ever seemed to garner him another year, maybe two, before the institution in question was again telling him it was time to move on.

Well, he didn’t want to move on. He liked the mild climate of the northwest far more than the humidity of the east, the furnace of the south in summer, or the biting cold of the midwest in winter. He was getting older, making him less attractive to schools that all seemed to have all fallen under the allure of youth, valuing it for itself and discounting the value of experience out of hand. He enjoyed being at Rainier and had settled into the community.

He’d known that he was going to have to act, which was why he’d already set his tried and true plan into motion. The girl was nothing, just one more so-sincere student that few would miss. She’d been too mild in personality to have any enemies, for anyone to have any motivation to murder her, which was exactly why he’d chosen her. The police and the FBI had nothing to go on when killings were random, without discernable purpose. His strategy of choosing such individuals had served his strategy well; the ones who were the real targets got lost in the crowd, no one looking too close at who might benefit from their demise. Just one more apparently senseless, tragic event.

Swiveling in his chair to look out of the window behind him, Gerald considered his next steps. Ideally, he’d prefer to put off killing Sandburg until he had muddied the waters with a few more other deaths. But the cocky grad student was complicating things by having left the city, being present only for certain, brief periods – and time was running out to get another contract confirmed for the next year. If things didn’t get settled soon with the administration, he would be expected to move on about the same time as Sandburg was expected to return to Cascade with his completed thesis in hand.

Gerald hadn’t been pleased the week before when Blair had shared his plans to move out of the city for a few months to finish his work. Killing someone at a distance complicated things. Someone might see Gerald’s vehicle in the area around the same time as the murder, and questions could be raised about the coincidence. Raines had been successful in the past because he’d never had to explain being where he wasn’t supposed to be, and he didn’t intend to change a successful strategy at this stage. He’d planned to make the hit on the kid the next week, when he was around for the exams, though that left his own employment situation tenuous for longer than he liked.

Now he knew that Sandburg was returning earlier than expected, coming in late that night, to be present for the examinations beginning next week. It was certainly good of old Stoddard to keep him so well posted on the bastard’s sterling progress, even if it meant listening to the drivel about how the poor young man had to work all evening before he drove back into town – most students were poor and had to work, so what? But Stoddard’s concern to process this particular dissertation so damned quickly grated. What the hell made this kid so special? If Sandburg had continued to dawdle along like he’d been doing for years, or if the review process took the usual amount of time, then the granting of his degree in time for the next semester would be in question and Rainier would have renewed Gerald’s contract. Why should the members of his dissertation committee go out of their way to evaluate his progress as he submitted bits and pieces, so that the defense and final approval could be expedited as soon as the paper was finished? Dear Blair had certainly taken his own sweet time to get around to focusing on the damned thing – and now Stoddard was saying that he was only trying to accommodate Gerald’s schedule, so that the work could be completed before he finished up at Rainier. Snorting contemptuously, Raines supposed the old fart was more than half in love with beautiful Blair, wife and kids notwithstanding. Some old men were suckers for the artificial allure of perpetual youth that irresponsible types like Sandburg cultivated with their big wide, guileless eyes, wild, untamed hair and student grunge attire. Not just old men, either, he smiled cynically. Those two cops must be enamored of him, too, to have put up with having him hanging around the cop shop for so many years.

There was no option. The sooner Sandburg was out of the equation, the better everything would be. Tonight was the night, and when he was done with bouncy Blair, he’d take out a prostitute. The cops would simply think their serial killer was out of control, the speed of the hits accelerating for some unknown reason. Later, over the weekend, he’d kill a sailor; shouldn’t be too hard to find one in a harbour city. Chuckling to himself, he shook his head.

Nobody was ever going to figure out how he decided upon his _truly_ random victims.

* * *

Jim’s brow furrowed in frustration as he again went over the list of victims killed in five spurts of activity over the last eighteen years. There was something there, on the pages in front of him, that he knew he was missing. Once again, he read the names and occupations, where there were any listed. Prostitutes. Students. Butcher. Baker. Candlemaker. Teachers or professors. Junk dealer. Soldier. Rich. Poor. A beggar. A thief. Sighing, he scratched his cheek. Sandburg was right. These nuts always had some rationale, but what the hell could link all these different types of victims together?

Student, teacher, prostitute, butcher, baker, rich, poor, soldier, beggar, thief ….

“Oh, God,” he gasped, his gaze lifting from the document on the desk to stare fixedly into space. “That’s it. That’s got to be it.”

Immediately, he shot to his feet and strode to Simon’s office, giving a cursory rap on the doorframe before moving inside to share his theory.

“Nursery rhymes?” Banks exclaimed in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s selecting victims based on kiddy chants?”

“Not all of them,” Jim replied intently. “Think about it. What if one of the victims in each city is personal, but all the others are just so much smoke. Everybody has some rationale for what they do. Nothing is ever completely random. So, how do you choose random victims? How do you decide who to go out to stalk and kill if you really don’t give a damn who you kill, but you want it all to be as confusing as possible for the investigators?”

“I’ll be damned,” Simon reflected as he thought it through and then nodded slowly. “So, who doesn’t fit? The prostitutes and students?”

“And the teachers, some professors and some teaching fellows, like Sandburg.”

“Well, we can probably discount the prostitutes, too,” the Captain mused. “So, that leaves the students and the teachers. This guy is going after one or the other for some reason we don’t understand yet. If it is Raines, could be he’s harassed the students and is trying to avoid complaints that could sully his reputation. A bad case of overkill, that’s for sure, but it makes a weird kind of sense. Can’t see why he’d be killing off other teachers, though, so they’re probably smokescreen, too.”

“Maybe. We don’t have enough information yet to be sure,” Jim allowed. “Tammy Thompson was in his class. I’ll call the other cities to have checks made on the other students that were murdered, to find out if each of them was also in one of his classes.”

Gazing approvingly at his best detective, Banks nodded. “Good work, Jim. If your enquiries pan out, we’ll have more than enough to substantiate a warrant to have him brought in for DNA matching against the sample found at the last scene.”

* * *

The case rattled around in the back of Blair’s mind during the whole of his busy shift serving holiday makers with their favorite brand and style of caffeine. He’d quickly adapted to the rhythm of the work, adopting a customer-pleasing patter and stylized bounce as he filled their orders and bantered back and forth. As the evening progressed, his thoughts began to flow in a similar rhythm, his mind chanting, _‘student, teacher, butcher, baker, rich man, poor man, beggarman … thief’._

He froze in the act of adding a dash of chocolate sprinkles to the mountainous pile of whipped cream on the top of a frozen mochaccino. “Holy shit,” he breathed softly. Quickly finishing up the order, he asked his coworker, Christie, to cover for a minute while he made a phone call. Hastening outside around to the back of the shop, away from the laughter on the patio, he pulled out his cell and punched in the number to the loft. When Jim answered, he chanted, “Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.”

 _“Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief; tinker, tailor, candlestick maker; soldier, sailor, Indian chief,”_ Jim replied deadpan, and then laughed at Blair’s splutter of consternation.

“Ah, man, I should have known you’d’ve already figured it out,” Blair chuckled, shaking his head. Raking blowing strands of his tied-back hair off his face, he went on more seriously, “So, most of the victims really are pretty random, but a few are deliberate. This guy is seriously sick, Jim, to kill so many innocent people just to confuse things.”

 _“Looks like it, Chief,”_ Jim agreed somberly. _“It seems so simple, once you’re on to it. But a lot of people had to die before the pattern could be seen. We’re checking to see if all of the students killed took classes from Raines. Maybe it’s all about covering up harassment, or inappropriate affairs, or something.”_

Sandburg sobered completely as he looked out at the sea. “I really hate to think Gerry is responsible for all these deaths, you know?” he observed unhappily. “I mean, I’ve been one of his students, and I’ve never seen him be anything but perfectly professional.”

 _“Well, we could be wrong in our suspicions,”_ Jim allowed. _“Won’t know if we’ve got the links with other victims until sometime tomorrow.”_

“I have to say, I hope you are wrong,” Blair replied. “But I also hope you’re on to something that will help catch whoever it is. The guy is seriously bizarre. Not to mention, deadly. By the way, I meant to ask you, what does the symbol he carves into his victims look like? A stylized cross, or what?”

 _“It’s a half-moon symbol, Chief,”_ Jim told him.

Frowning in concentration, Blair probed, “You mean, like a ‘C’, the alphabet letter ‘C’?”

 _“Uh huh, only backwards,”_ Ellison agreed. _“Why? Does it mean something to you?”_

“I’m not sure, but we know it means something to the killer,” Blair murmured uncertainly. Thinking of his new dissertation, Blair narrowed his eyes, wondering what it might mean, if it meant anything at all. “Could be a mirror-image kind of thing, if the symbol somehow _represents_ the killer – you know, his own private joke of revealing himself in a code he thinks the cops will never figure out. Like the mark of Cain, but the mark is on him and only reflected on his victims. It’s convoluted, and more than a little arrogant, but maybe something a serial killer would do.”

 _“Doesn’t have to be that convoluted or esoteric, Chief,”_ Jim reflected slowly, as he played with the idea. _“If you’re right about the mirror-image thing, could be the ‘C’ stands for Criminologist.”_

“Oh, man,” Blair groaned. “It really does look like it’s Gerry, doesn’t it? It’s just so hard to believe. I guess you’re having him tailed.”

 _“Better believe it. If it’s him, he’s not going to kill anyone else on my turf,”_ Ellison assured him gruffly.

“Right, well, okay. I’ll see you later,” Blair concluded the call, knowing he needed to get back to work. “My gear’s packed and in the car. I still expect to be back around midnight.”

 _“See you then, Sandburg.”_

* * *

Gerald Raines parked his car in the shadows under a tree on a dark, quiet residential street. He’d deliberately chosen the area because the residents there routinely left their vehicles along the curb, so one more car wouldn’t stand out, and it was just over three blocks from where he knew Sandburg lived – far enough away not to be tied to the crime he planned. As usual, he’d dressed all in black – jeans, t-shirt and light jacket – and he’d concealed the facemask he’d don later in one pocket. His thin leather driving gloves were stuffed in the other jacket pocket as it was still so hot that wearing them might occasion notice by a happenstance observer as he passed along the streets. The hunting knife, a common make that could be purchased in any store catering to campers, fishermen and hunters, was out of sight under the jacket, in the scabbard attached to his belt.

Having gauged approximately when Sandburg would be arriving home after his evening shift at some coffee shop in the small, ocean-side town, he’d allowed himself sufficient time to amble casually down the street, but not so much time that he’d be seen loitering in the area of the apartments over Colette’s. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, averting his face or bowing his head whenever he walked under streetlamps, he made his way with calm deliberation toward the planned killing ground.

He regretted that this would be a faster kill than most, less punishing. But he knew from what the grad student had told him earlier in the year, during one of their get-togethers in his apartment, that Sandburg shared an apartment with someone else. Amazing how much information people gave away unwittingly. Most of his targeted victims had made it just as easy, the fools chattering on and on about themselves and their mundane lives so that he knew their habits and schedules perhaps better than they did themselves. Thinking again about Sandburg, he shrugged to himself. There’d be little time for a beating because there was danger of the assault being seen on the street, and he didn’t want to risk any contact with the roommate. No, better to knife the man mortally, as if it had happened in the struggle, and then immediately apply a quick, bruising strangle hold to match, as much as possible, his well-established MO. A quick cut to the cheek and he’d be back in the shadows. The work of less than a minute to accomplish and, since the apartment was close to the harbour, he could take a stroll in that direction and see if he could find himself a sailor, or perhaps a prostitute.

Maybe both. An orgy of death in a single night would make it all the more credible that the serial killer the police were seeking so fruitlessly was losing control, and make the aborted MO on Sandburg even more credible as one meaningless death amongst many. Raines snickered softly to himself. It was all so easy when one knew all the rules of the game and was in complete control of the play.

* * *

Brown parked at the far end of the block from the place Raines had chosen for his own car. Sitting in the darkness, he and Rafe checked out the area and watched their suspect casually amble away in the opposite direction.

“He’s up to something,” Brown muttered, the black garb and the man’s care to stay in shadow as much as possible telegraphing the suspected killer’s intent at being out at close to midnight.

“He’s heading toward the harbour. You think he’s looking for a sailor?” Rafe speculated. Brown shrugged. Once again the two detectives looked up and down the quiet street. If they left their vehicle to tail Raines on foot, he’d be sure to notice two men following him since, otherwise, the road and sidewalks were deserted. Given the lack of traffic, they also didn’t dare drive past him to park closer to the marina. No way did they want to do anything that could spook him.

They watched until he was nearly two blocks ahead before quietly getting out of their vehicle. But, instead of continuing on to the waterfront, Raines turned off onto another street.

“Where’s he going?” Rafe muttered, as they broke into a jog, taking care to keep their loping steps as silent as possible.

Henri looked over the roofs of the small bungalows and saw a building in the distance that looked very familiar. He hadn’t realized they were so close to the loft. Waving at Brian to keep after the suspect, he called quietly, “Jim’s place is only about a block or so from where he turned off. I’ll call him to give him a heads-up that there may be trouble coming to his neighborhood. Go on! I’ll catch up to you.”

Pulling his cell out of his pocket and punching in the number, he watched his partner race down the block toward the corner where they’d lost sight of their suspect. “Jim, it’s H,” he said as soon as Ellison picked up. “Raines is heading toward your location. Rafe is about a block behind him and I’m not much farther back.” He started a slow jog as he listened while Ellison thought about the new development.

 _“Christ,”_ Jim suddenly gasped. _“He might be after Sandburg! I’ll meet you downstairs.”_

* * *

Jim closed the connection, glanced up at the clock that showed it was just a few minutes short of midnight, and then quickly punched in the speed dial for Blair’s cell. Opening up his hearing, he caught the distinctive sound of the old Volvo turning the corner. What a time for Sandburg to suddenly become punctual. A moment later, the connection went through and he heard the phone brill in the car outside as it drew past the apartment building, heading to the parking lot on the side.

 _“Sandburg.”_

“Chief, it’s me. Raines is somewhere close. Stay in your car until I get downstairs.”

Without waiting for a response, Jim banged the phone back into its cradle on the wall, grabbed his weapon from the kitchen drawer and lunged out of the apartment and into the stairwell, taking the steps two and three at a time as he hastened downstairs.

* * *

“What?” Blair exclaimed, but only heard a dial tone. Already in the parking lot by the time he’d answered the call, he figured he couldn’t very well drive back out again, not if Raines was there and watching him. So, tense and trembling, he pulled into his usual parking space. Trying to be surreptitious about it, he glanced around the lot and dawdled through the process of putting the gear into park and switching off the ignition. He didn’t see anything, but then it was dark as Hades in the ill-lit lot, the only illumination coming from a distant streetlamp around the corner of the building, and the occasional shaft of dull light leaking through the heavily curtained windows of a few overlooking apartments.

He swallowed against the fear that thickened his throat. If Raines _was_ the killer, and if for some reason _he_ was a target, then they needed to catch him now. Faking a yawn in case he was being watched, he casually raked his hair back and then turned to the passenger seat, moving his hands around as if he was putting things together before getting out of the vehicle. Facing away from the driver-side door, he was acutely conscious that it was unlocked, but figured that locking it would be noticed if he was being watched, and make Raines suspicious. The only warning he had that he might be in trouble was the shadow upon shadow effect of a slight darkening inside the vehicle. He was turning his head back toward the door, while simultaneously levering his body across the gearshift toward the passenger seat, desperately hoping he’d only find Jim watching him quizzically, when the door was pulled open.

There was a flash of something silver, and Blair felt the burn of the blade before he consciously realized he’d seen a knife. Yelling in mingled fear and indignation at the unprovoked attack, he struggled to shift around, to bring his arm up to block the next thrust. But this time a gloved hand reached in to drag him roughly out of the car, and then bang him hard against the metal frame. Disoriented by the speed and viciousness of the attack, he barely blocked a punch toward his face, deflecting it to his shoulder.

Hands reached to lock around his throat, and he kicked out, fighting back. Jim was coming. Jim would be here any second now.

As if the thought had conjured the reality, Blair heard his partner’s voice ring out, chillingly cold with promise, **“POLICE! _Let him go, you bastard, or I’ll blow your brains out.”_**

The masked assailant cursed as he lurched sideways, yanking Blair around between him and Ellison. Sandburg was still fighting, still clawing at the thumbs pressing into his windpipe, while trying as best he could to stay out of Jim’s line of fire. Just as Blair felt a vague lassitude sweep over him, he was shoved back toward Jim, who had been pacing closer to get a better angle for his shot. Off-balance, coughing and gasping for air, Sandburg stumbled to the ground just as a shot rang out. But Raines had scrambled behind other parked cars, moving quickly to make his escape.

Jim paced swiftly past Sandburg, putting himself between the assailant and his partner, weapon clasped in fists held out before his body, keeping low but determined not to let the perp escape. Ears attuned to the faint pad and scrape of sneakered feet on the pavement, he prowled after his quarry with feline grace, sight wide open to see in the near dark. Brian raced into the mouth of alley behind the apartment building at the end of the parking lot and Jim called out, “Watch it! He’s here, heading toward you!”

Tempered steel caught the limited light as it sped faster than the eye could follow, and Ellison yelled, **_“Duck!”_**

Rafe lurched to the side, not quite fast enough to avoid the blade that lodged in his shoulder. With a muted shout of startled pain, he wheeled around, hitting the brick wall behind him, and the assailant rushed out of the shadows. Jim’s pistol erupted again, and he knew he’d clipped the man’s leg, determined to slow him down but trying not to mortally wound him. Less than a second later, Brown’s voice rang out, **_“Police! Hold it right there, sucker. You’re not going anywhere. On the ground, facedown. NOW!”_**

As swiftly as the attack had begun, it was over. Jim cuffed the perp while Brown fished out his cell to call for backup and an ambulance. Pulling the mask off Raines’ face, Ellison read the man his rights, and informed him he was under arrest for assault, attempted murder and the murder of Tamara Thompson. “For starters,” Jim added gruffly, as he hauled Raines to his feet to march him back to Sandburg. “We’ll see what else we can come up with in the morning.”

Behind him, Brown assisted his partner out of the shadows. When he saw the hilt of the blade sticking out of Brian’s shoulder he winced in sympathy. “Oooo, babe, that’s gotta hurt.”

“Ya think?” Rafe grated, his right hand pressed around the blade to support his injured shoulder.

By the time they got back to him, Blair was leaning against his car, panting, one hand massaging his bruised throat.

“Hey, Chief, you okay?” Jim asked with concern as he pushed Raines down on the ground.

“Yeah, I think so,” Sandburg rasped. Staring at Raines, he shook his head. “Gerry, why? I don’t understand. Why have you killed so many –” A cough burst from his chest, stealing his words.

Raines looked up at him, loathing glittering in his eyes. “I despise you,” he sneered. “Fucking genius. Everything is so damned easy for you! Do you even care?”

“Care? Care about what?” Blair rasped hoarsely as he forced back another cough.

“They’re giving you my job!” Raines snapped before he turned his face away. “I work hard my whole life, but experience means nothing. Only youth. Fuck youth.”

Jim frowned at his partner, and moved closer, sniffing the air, his head tilted as he listened to sounds no one could hear. “What did he do to you?” he demanded, his voice low and tight.

“Huh? Oh, tried to stab me. Dragged me from the car to strangle me,” Blair said, tiredness descending upon him as the adrenaline rush wore off. “Slammed me into the car. Man, he did a number on my back. It’s killing me. He did this over a _job?_ ” he added with disbelief, submitting unthinkingly to Jim’s attention as Ellison slowly turned him to look at his side and back.

“Chief, he didn’t just _try_ to stab you,” Jim said thickly. “You’re bleeding pretty bad. Maybe you should sit down.”

 _ **“Bleeding?”**_ Sandburg exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief. “Where?” He twisted to look over his shoulder and then under his arm, wincing at the sudden shaft of burning pain, and grimacing at the stain darkening his shirt. “Oh, man,” he gusted. “No wonder I don’t feel so good.”

“Sit down, Sandburg,” Ellison directed with a firm calm that sounded hard won as he gently guided his friend to the ground. “Let me check you out.”

“Good idea, okay,” Blair muttered as he slid down to rest his shoulder against the Volvo. Looking up at Rafe, who appeared wan in the darkness as he leaned heavily against Brown’s sturdy support, he joked weakly, “Mind sharing your ambulance, man?”

“Hey, anytime, buddy,” Brian bantered back shakily. “Mi ambulance es su ambulance.”

Blair laughed and then stifled a moan as Jim lifted his shirt and probed the wound. “Easy, man,” he urged.

“Looks like a bad gash, Blair,” Jim told him gently, applying pressure to the wound with the flat of his hand. “Bleeding a fair amount, but probably not serious. Deep breaths, kid, okay? I don’t want you passing out on me.”

“Pass out? Nah, I wouldn’t do that,” Sandburg sighed as he leaned into Jim’s support. “I’m just a little tired, you know? Oh, and, uh, thanks, man. You’ve got great timing, you know that?”

Jim smiled fondly and nodded. “With you, Chief, timing seems to be just about everything,” he teased, very relieved, and conscious of a kind of joy that things hadn’t gone any worse. The kid was slightly battered, but not out for the count. He’d be okay. His gaze hardened as he looked at Raines, huddled now and looking pathetic – no doubt already plotting his insanity plea – and thought about how easy it would have been to kill the bastard. Looking up at Brown, he met his colleague’s steady gaze and saw understanding in the dark brown depths.

“He just ain’t worth the paperwork, babe,” Henri drawled. “Better if he rots in jail for the rest of his damned life.”

Ellison nodded. He couldn’t agree more.

* * *

Brown had gone back for his vehicle after the uniforms gathered up Raines, and Jim followed the crowded ambulance in his truck. Banks had arrived at the hospital about an hour earlier to check out the status of his men. He never liked to see his people injured, but he was relieved the damage wasn’t any worse.

Blair needed seven stitches and a pint of blood but was deemed good to go two hours after arriving in Emergency. Brian wasn’t so lucky. The knife had torn through muscle that needed to be surgically repaired, but the early prognosis was that he’d be out of the hospital in two or three days, with a schedule of physical therapy sessions arranged to ensure full recovery. Henri elected to remain at the hospital until Brian got settled in his room.

“You guys did good tonight,” Simon told them before going with Brown to get a coffee and keep him company until Rafe was out of surgery. “All of you,” he added meaningfully, turning his gaze to Sandburg. “We got a bad one off the streets.” His men nodded slowly, but faces pinched with weariness twitched with smiles that indicated their pleasure at the commendation and satisfaction with jobs well done. “You better get your partner home, Jim. He looks about tuckered out,” he added fondly.

“We’re on our way, Captain,” Ellison replied. “We’ll be in tomorrow to do the paperwork.”

They parted, Brown and Banks turning toward the cafeteria, while Jim supported his friend out to the truck. “You doing okay?” he asked solicitously.

“Oh, yeah, man,” Blair assured him blearily as he climbed awkwardly into the truck. “Drugs are … well, sometimes they’re great. And this is one of those times.”

“If you say so, Junior,” Jim agreed amiably as he secured the seatbelt around Sandburg.

“I stayed in the car, Jim,” Blair reported, his voice drifting anxiously on the fog of medication. “Like you said. Couldn’t lock the door, though. He’d’ve seen me; might’ve scared him off.”

“You heard Simon,” Ellison reassured him. “You kept your head and did good. Didn’t let him kill you.”

Sagging with fatigue, Sandburg nodded slowly, his gaze unfocused. But he jerked upright just as Jim turned into the street. “Ah, shit!” he groused with feeling.

“What is it?” Jim demanded sharply, frowning at him with concern.

“My diss committee, man,” Blair sighed as he again sagged despondently against the seat. “Eli’s gonna have to get someone else from Crim to be on the committee. What a hassle.”

Chuckling, Jim shook his head as he concentrated on driving along the dark streets, endeavoring to keep the ride as smooth as he could. “Only you, Sandburg. Only you would have a serial killer on a committee to approve your defence for a PhD in Criminology.”

“Hey, it’s not like I planned it, you know,” Blair retorted, aggrieved. And then he processed the words. “You know about that? That I’m going for a double?”

“Yeah, I know. So does Simon. Stoddard told us all about it, and about how they’re holding a slot on the faculty for you in the next term.” Jim took care to inject enthusiasm into his voice as he added, “Says you’ll get tenure in record time. Sounds like your future is all laid out.”

Blair gazed at Jim for a long moment before turning his face away to stare sightlessly out the side window at the passing street. “I guess it is,” he agreed softly. He didn’t see the swift glance Jim threw him, or the look of confusion on his friend’s face at the despondency resonating his voice.

Jim didn’t say anything, but his expression was thoughtful during the rest of their silent journey.

* * *

Blair was stiff the next day, his voice hoarse. He still looked too pale for Jim’s liking, but insisted he was alright. After breakfast, he set up his laptop in his room before wandering back into the living area. “I guess I need to go downtown with you, to give my statement.”

“Guess you do, Chief,” Ellison agreed as he slipped his pistol into the holster clipped to the back of his belt. “We’ll make it as quick and easy as we can, and I’ll bring you back here to rest.” Glancing meaningfully at the room under the stairs, he emphasized, “And I mean _rest_ , Einstein. No hunching over that laptop all damned day.”

Blair shrugged and then winced in reaction, looking chagrined. “Gotta say, I don’t feel much like working today. But I’ve got to go by the university later. I promised Eli I’d drop off some documents, and I’ve got to get the exams copied for next week.”

“Bring your stuff with you,” Jim directed. “We can do all that on the way back home.”

“Man, you’ve got a busy day,” Sandburg objected. “You don’t have to –”

But, breaking in, Jim lifted his hands, palms out as he turned away, “No discussion, Chief. Statement, errands, and then rest. In that order. Let’s hit the road.”

“Whoa,” Blair chuckled, unable to help feeling pleased at the care his friend insisted on taking of him. “Feeling just a little dictatorial today, are we?”

“Blessed Protector prerogative, kid,” Jim retorted without apology as he waved Sandburg out of the loft ahead of him. But he smiled as he added, “Gotta take care of my partner, Chief. It’s cop rule number one.”

“They teach you that at the Academy?” Blair laughed, uncharacteristically reaching to push the elevator button, but the stairs certainly held no appeal that morning.

“You bet your butt, short stuff,” Ellison assured him warmly.

Nodding agreeably, Blair shifted slightly away to hide the surge of desire in his groin, and sudden shaft of pain from his heart. The concern, the affection in Jim’s voice was almost too much to take. He wondered idly if he took that bet, would he win … or lose his butt to Jim? Hell, the guy already owned his heart. Seemed a small thing to give up his butt, too. In fact, they were the stakes and the bet he’d most choose to lose to his partner.

Like that was ever going to happen.

Jim caught the hitch in his respirations and, turning to look down on the riotous curls, still damp from the shower and glistening with infinitesimal rainbows under the sharp light fixture above their heads, the subtle scent of pheromones tickled his nostrils. His lips parted in surprise and his features slackened in uncertainty. Swallowing, he looked away, his gaze dropping to an intent study of the scruffy linoleum beneath his feet as they waited in silence for the elevator to creak its way to the third floor.

* * *

When Jim got home for the second time that day, early in the evening, he found dinner simmering in the oven – one of his favorite casseroles – and Sandburg curled on his bed, glasses slipping down his nose, sound asleep beside a large tome that had fallen open beside him. “Don’t you ever stop?” he murmured as he picked up the textbook and set it on the side table, and then carefully removed the glasses. “Or haven’t you heard that you’ve already won the university sweepstakes and can quit trying so hard?”

“Mmm?” Blair mumbled drowsily at the sound of his voice.

“Shh, it’s okay, Chief. Just sleep,” he urged gently as he pulled up the blanket and tucked it in around Blair’s shoulders.

“’kay,” Sandburg murmured trustingly with a soft smile, and slipped back to his dreams.

Jim stood looking at him for a long time, as if memorizing his friend’s features before he finally, slowly, moved away, quietly closing the door behind him.

* * *

“You ever going to come out of that room?” Ellison called on Saturday afternoon. “The game’s about to start.”

He heard the soft pad of stocking feet on the floorboards, and Blair appeared by the stairs, looking oddly hesitant. “What’s up?” Jim asked at the apparent uncertainty. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t use a break. You’ve been on that computer non-stop since breakfast.”

“Well,” Sandburg replied diffidently, “being here sorta screws up the test, don’t you think? I thought, maybe, I should just stay as invisible as possible.”

Rolling his eyes, Jim waved toward the couch. “Don’t get all bent out of shape, Sandburg. It’s a non-test test, right? We just act like two normal guys, not sentinel and guide, no talk about the senses, and we watch some sports on television.” Holding up the bowl in his hands, he added seductively, “I’ve got popcorn.”

“Oh, well, if you’ve got popcorn,” Blair allowed as he came further into the room and appropriated the bowl before settling on the sofa. “Now, _I’ve_ got popcorn,” he said smugly.

Ellison arched a brow and scratched his cheek at such brazen theft and then, with an equally smug expression, reached down to the floor on the far side of his chair and lifted another brimming bowl onto his lap. With a wordless air of superiority, he flicked on the television, but broke into a delighted grin at the light snicker of laughter from the cheap seats.

Turning his attention to the game, Sandburg narrowed his eyes as he took in the larger screen. “That isn’t the old television,” he noted astutely.

“Very observant, Sherlock,” Ellison agreed.

“What happened to the old television? It was working fine,” Blair asked, confused. “Not that this new one isn’t, uh, pretty spectacular.”

“Would you just watch the game? It’s started already,” Jim appealed with a playful whine, his gaze apparently fixed on the wide screen.

Sandburg studied him for a moment, then shrugged. Reaching into the bowl for some popcorn, he settled down to watch the game. Watching his roommate out of the corner of his eye, and enjoying seeing Blair look so comfortable in his usual place, Jim couldn’t resist a small, nearly hidden, smile of contentment at how right things felt, how good home felt, now that Sandburg was back.

* * *

With mixed boredom and a growing irritation with the perpetual click of laptop keys, Jim again hauled him out of his room the next day. “It’s a beautiful day and you need some fresh air,” he insisted. “C’mon. Just a walk along the waterfront. I’ll buy you an ice cream cone.”

“Ice cream? What flavour?” Blair asked, perking up and ceasing his feigned resistance to being dragged so determinedly toward the door.

“Whatever flavour you want, Junior,” Ellison told him with a fond smile that melted Blair’s heart.

Half an hour later, they found a shady bench under the spreading branches of an ancient oak tree, to enjoy their ice cream and watch sailboats scud across the harbour. Finishing his cone, Blair flopped back against the wooden back of the bench in a relaxed sprawl. Resting his head on the topmost plank, he lifted his face to the sky, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of the fresh, light air. “You’re right,” he sighed. “It is a beautiful day.”

Tilting his head to gaze down into his partner’s peaceful features, lips curled into a soft smile, dark lashes resting on slightly bronzed cheeks, Jim nodded. “Beautiful,” he agreed, his voice low.

But his glance flickered away to the water when Blair blinked and sat up slowly, mindful of the still healing wound just behind his armpit. “You were great the other night,” Sandburg reflected. “You were using hearing and sight, both, weren’t you? When you went after Raines? It was an incredible shot, given how fast he was moving and how dark it was.” Jim shrugged, as if it were no big deal, and looked away. “You’re doing okay, aren’t you?” Sandburg asked quietly. “On your own, I mean.”

“It’s only been a week, Chief,” Ellison replied, his voice sounding distant, restrained.

Not sure how to interpret the tone, Blair thoughtfully chewed on his inner lip before he hesitantly posed his next question. “And … and Veronica? You okay with what happened last week?”

Ellison’s jaw tightened briefly, his whole body stiffening in resistance of the reminder of their quarrel the night Blair left, but then he snorted in self-deprecation. Crossing his arms, he bowed his head and nodded. “Yeah. You were right, Chief. She was a bitch.” Sighing, his gaze fixed on a boat tilting as the sail caught the wind. “I … I was more angry about being such a damned fool, than with … with you that night.”

Blair’s lips thinned as he nodded in sympathy. Curls blew across his face and he raked his hair back. “It wasn’t just you,” he soothed. “She fooled a lot of people.” He paused, and then added with tight vehemence, “I hated her. Still do.”

Surprised by the virulence in Sandburg’s voice, Jim turned to look at him. “Hate, Chief? Why would you feel so strongly about her? You hardly knew her.”

Tension vibrated through Blair’s body, and his jaw was tight as he grated, “I hate her for betraying you. For using your love to hurt you.” Swallowing, avoiding his friend’s gaze, he gusted, “Dammit, Jim. You’ve been hurt so much in your life, been betrayed by too many people you cared about. It’s not fair, you know? You don’t … don’t deserve to have to suffer that kind of pain. It’s not right.”

Touched, Jim felt his throat thicken, but his lips curled into a slow smile of gratitude. Looping an arm around his friend’s shoulders, he said hoarsely, “Life isn’t always fair, Junior. But, uh, thanks.”

For a moment, Blair leaned into Jim’s embrace, his eyes closing to hide the emotions that filled him nearly to overflowing. But then he pulled away and stood, as if suddenly restless. “I should get back to the loft,” he said uncomfortably.

“Okay,” Jim agreed mildly as he stood to amble back with his friend. “You seem to be making great progress on your paper,” he added, though there was no real curiosity in his tone.

Looking up at him, Blair said firmly, “You really don’t have to worry about it.”

“I know that,” Ellison assured him. “I trust you. And, besides, Stoddard said you’d solved the problem of protecting ‘your source’s’ identity.”

Frowning, Sandburg replied, “He did? Why would he be talking to you about that?”

Shrugging, Jim looked away. “When we were questioning him about Tammy, he got to talking about you. Said a lot, actually, about how he’d been worried that you might abandon the university, and how relieved he was that you seemed to be on the right track.” Swallowing, he continued, “About how brilliant you are, and what a great contribution you’ll make in your field. Said the university would probably offer you tenure early, to keep you from being tempted away by another employer.”

Blair’s brows quirked. “He did have a lot to say,” he observed pensively.

“A lot of the profs talked about you,” Jim went on. “The old lady in psychology, I forget her name. She said they’d been trying to get you to change your major. Raines said you were a genius. That it was all easier for you than for most people.”

Snorting, Sandburg rubbed reflectively at his throat. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure his views are such a great testimonial,” he reflected wryly.

“You are a genius, aren’t you?” Ellison rasped then, insistently, as if it was suddenly of great import. “Destined to do something great with your life?”

Startled by the bitterness tingeing Jim’s voice, Blair laughed nervously as he shook his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he joked gently.

Chagrined, Jim grimaced as he shook his head. “No, not bad, not at all,” he sighed. “Just, well, it’s just that I hadn’t really thought about it before – and neither had Simon. I guess we haven’t paid much attention to your life when you’re at Rainier. We just never thought about it.”

“And now that you’ve thought about it – what?” Blair asked, feeling as if he were missing something.

Jim searched the clear sky as if looking for answers as they walked a few steps in silence. Finally, he replied, his voice again oddly cool and distant, “I guess we both understand better why you need to finish up your research and get your paper done. Why you need to get back to that life.”

Blair squinted up at Jim, trying to understand the tension he felt emanating from his friend. “It’s not like I’m in a huge hurry to move on, you know,” he offered slowly. “It’s just that –”

“You don’t have to explain,” Ellison cut in. “It’s okay. I know it’s gone on longer than either of us planned in the beginning.”

“Yeah,” Blair agreed, despondency bleeding into his voice. He couldn’t stop himself from asking for some reassurance, however slight. “But we’ll still be friends, right?”

“Sure, Chief,” Jim agreed dryly, though he kept his face averted. “We’ll still be friends.”

Blair’s throat felt raw and swollen, choking off all the words he wanted so badly to say, all the feelings he wanted to confess. They walked the rest of the way back in silence, the beauty of the day and the quiet joy of it diminished by the renewed uneasiness between them.

* * *

The next week passed swiftly, Blair caught up in taking, giving and marking exams. He filled his spare moments working on his paper, like a man driven by unseen demons toward a precipice he didn’t want to face but couldn’t avoid. Jim found himself almost immediately embroiled in a new case; he was tracking the disappearance of an important and wealthy member of the business community, one the police had long suspected of having mob connections. Each night when he returned late, weary and worried about the lack of leads, Blair had to fight his nearly overwhelming inclination to ask how his friend was managing or if there was something, anything he could do to help. For his part, Jim noticed the lack of interest in his work and tried to tell himself that it was just the damned non-test, not that Sandburg couldn’t care less anymore about how he was doing. But he couldn’t raise the subject of his work himself, lest he impose on Blair’s time and attention. It didn’t take a genius to see how preoccupied and busy the kid was – not when he lay awake half the night every night, listening to the clicking of Blair’s fingertips on the keyboard.

Blair submitted the final grades for his students late on Saturday afternoon. On his way back to the loft, he stopped to pick up the supplies he needed for dinner that night, and to purchase a really good bottle of merlot. This might be the last time he had dinner in the loft, as a resident there, and he wanted it to be both casual and easy, but also maybe memorable. Most of all, he wanted Jim to enjoy it. Wanted to see Jim relaxed and happy before he left again the next day. Needed that memory to convince himself that he was doing the right and necessary thing for Jim by continuing to distance himself.

When he got home, he marinated the steaks, mixed the salad dressing, tossed the greens with sliced mushrooms and slivered almonds, and put the potatoes on the grill to bake. He chopped up more mushrooms and sliced the onions, dumping both in the olive oil in the frying pan, ready for cooking as soon as Jim got back from work.

Ellison returned to the loft just before six-thirty, and sniffed appreciatively as he picked up on the mingled scents of one of his favorite meals. Blair smiled at him in greeting as he flicked on the element under the frying pan and then he uncorked the wine to let it breathe. “Want me to get the steaks on?” Jim asked as he ambled into the kitchen and gave an approving look at the fine cuts of meat.

“Not yet,” Blair replied. “There’s time for a shower if you want to relax a little before dinner.”

“Good idea,” Ellison agreed. “I’ve been prowling around hot and stuffy warehouses all day, looking for anything that might be suspicious or explain why Matheson took a hike – or got wasted.”

“Find anything?” Sandburg asked as Jim wandered off toward the bathroom.

The detective paused and turned around to answer. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did,” he revealed, pleased to have been asked. “A patch of dried blood under a barrel near one of the loading docks. Everything looked innocent enough, but I could smell it, just faintly. We’re checking to see if it’s Matheson’s blood.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Blair replied, his words rushed as he turned away. “You’re doing really great, Jim,” he added for good measure, and then looked at the clock as if seeking inspiration. “Uh, the mushrooms and onions will take about twenty minutes.”

“Right,” Jim murmured as he turned away. “I won’t be long.”

Over dinner, they both sought refuge from the tension between them by recalling the uncomplicated good times of their first years together, laughing over the memories, teasing one another. Mellowed by the wine and the good if simple fare, they drifted onto the balcony after cleaning up the kitchen, to sip a last glass of the rich ruby wine and watch the stars come out, both enjoying the mild evening air. Once again, the silence was easy between them as they each enjoyed the comfort of one another’s company. A wide yawn surprised Blair and made them both laugh. He stretched and stood as he said, “Well, I guess that’s my cue to call it a night. Sleep well, Jim.”

“You, too, Chief. ‘Night,” Jim returned with a warm smile.

* * *

The next morning, Jim was reading the newspaper at the table, enjoying a second cup of coffee after their late brunch of eggs, sausage and pancakes, when his attention was caught by the odd sounds coming from Sandburg’s room. Frowning, he set the paper aside and went to investigate. When he got to the doorway, the suspicions raised by the sound of the laptop being slipped into its case were confirmed. “What are you doing?” he asked hollowly, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Blair looked up from his packing. “Uh,” he hesitated at the dumbfounded expression on Jim’s face, “I’m getting ready to head back to Port Townsend.”

“But … I thought … I mean, when you came back …” Jim stammered. “You don’t have to go,” he finally blurted, suddenly wondering why he hadn’t found the right time for this conversation earlier in the week – more, why he hadn’t thought it would be necessary. Had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. “It’s stupid, Chief. You have to work at some job to pay extra rent when you’ve got a perfectly good place here. If this is about the stupid test, well, we haven’t talked about my senses all week. You’ve been working on your paper just fine, so I know you don’t have to be somewhere else to write.”

Floundering, not expecting there to be any protest about his departure, Blair gaped at Jim for a moment and then looked away to gather his thoughts. “It’s not about having to be somewhere else to write,” he finally replied unsteadily. Lifting his gaze to Jim’s, he continued earnestly, “But it _is_ important to see how you do on your own, to be sure that you’ve got the handle, the control, you need on your senses. To … to get your life back, your privacy, your … your independence. We both need to be sure that … that you don’t need me around anymore. And I, I’ve made commitments there. I’ve already paid for the cottage, so I might as well use it. And I have to be at work this evening, they’re expecting me.”

Jim’s expression closed up and his gaze dropped away. Swallowing, he nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Okay,” he husked, irritated by the hurt he could hear in his voice, and didn’t want to reveal. “Whatever you want. Whatever you think is best.”

“Ah, Jim,” Blair sighed, having also heard the pain but unsure what it meant. “It’s not like ….” But his voice faded away when Ellison lifted a hand to stave off more words and shifted away from the doorway, disappearing from sight.

He was standing with his back to the room, looking out the wide windows, when Blair carried out his bags a few minutes later. “Call me, okay? Let me know things are going fine,” he urged anxiously.

“Yeah, sure,” Jim said tightly. “I’ll call.” Turning stiffly from the window, his face a frozen mask, he added, “You call, too. So I’ll know you’re okay.”

“Absolutely,” Blair promised. They looked at one another uncomfortably, and then Blair hitched his pack over his shoulder. “Well, I guess … I have to go.”

Jim nodded, unable to speak as he watched Blair walk away and softly close the door behind him.

* * *

Blair fretted about Jim’s behaviour all the way back to the beach town, trying to figure out what was going on, why Jim seemed so surprised and upset. Surely Jim had known he’d only come back for the exams, hadn’t he? “I do _not_ understand,” he blurted out loud, as he pounded the steering wheel in frustration. “I don’t understand what you want from me, man. Dammit, Jim. I thought you _wanted_ me out of your space. I … God, I wish you’d tell me what you want me to do!” He paused to draw in breath, to fight the ache inside. “‘Cause I’d do it, man,” he went on brokenly, his throat tight. “I’d do anything for you.”

* * *

The blood turned out to be Matheson’s, so the investigation of a mysterious disappearance morphed into the search to determine why the tycoon had been murdered, even if they hadn’t found a body yet, and by whom. The new spin on the case allowed different questions, and permitted more in-depth examination of the victim’s financial holdings, transactions and records, as well as more thorough probing into his associates. Within three days, Jim and Joel had narrowed the investigation to focus on a pissed-off shipping agent, whom they suspected was aggrieved for having been shortchanged on his role in bringing in illicit drugs under the cover of cheap trinkets and souvenirs manufactured in Asia.

They went out to bring the man, Arthur Bellows, in for more rigorous questioning, but he panicked when he saw them enter his office, and pulled a weapon from his desk drawer. Chagrined at being caught flat-footed, not having expected the rash act, both tall men raised their hands and backed off, giving room so that their suspect wouldn’t get more agitated than he already was.

“Whoa, hold on just a minute,” Joel protested soothingly. “We just want to ask you a few more questions. No need for this.”

The seedy, middle-aged man, a mouse who had recently learned how to roar, motioned them away from the door, over to one wall as he edged his way around the desk. “Yeah, right,” he barked. “And then you’ll show me to a cell. No way. I’m not going to prison.”

Jim and Joel exchanged a quick look; they hadn’t worked together enough to know automatically what the other was thinking. Willing to take Ellison’s lead, Taggart quirked a questioning brow, his lips set in a grim line. This guy had killed at least once before and seemed more than willing to kill again. He wasn’t the sort of suspect they liked to leave at liberty; who knew who else he might perceive as being in his way, who else he might kill if they let him get away? Jim’s jaw flexed, but he nodded minutely and took a step away from Joel, closer to the corner of the desk.

“You can’t escape, you know,” Joel said, to draw Bellows’ attention.

As soon as the perp’s gaze shifted to Joel, Jim grabbed the loaded in-basket and flung it at Bellows. Papers and files filled the air, and Bellows swung back, his weapon firing. Joel grabbed his revolver from his shoulder holster and fired in one smooth act. The force of the bullet tearing into his chest drove Bellows back and down. Swiftly, Joel kicked the weapon from the limp hand, and dropped to one knee to ensure the man was dead before he looked around to check on Ellison.

“Jim!” he gasped, surging back to his feet to check on his partner, who had sagged down onto the floor. Supported by the wall behind him, one hand was pressed against his left side, over an expanding red stain on his shirt. “How bad?”

“Just a scratch,” Jim grated insistently through clenched teeth, though the deadly pallor of his face and the sweat bursting on his brow belied his words. Pressing his eyes closed, he frantically tried to get control of his dials, but the pain of the wound surged into a hellacious crescendo of agony, forcing a moan from his lips before he blacked out.

* * *

“Sandburg,” Blair mumbled into the cell phone he’d pressed against his ear, his thoughts still caught by the idea he was trying to express more coherently in his paper.

 _“Blair.”_

His breath caught at the sound of Simon’s voice, and he exclaimed before the Captain could offer more, “Oh, God! Is he okay?”

 _“Easy, son, yes, he’ll be fine,”_ Banks hastened to assure him, the tones warm, firm. _“Jim and Joel were bringing in a suspect earlier today when he pulled a gun on them. Jim distracted him while Joel brought him down. In the exchange of fire, Jim got some skin gouged out of his left side by a bullet. More than a scratch, but not serious.”_

“Oh, man,” Blair gasped as he sagged in his chair and raked his hair back with a trembling hand. Words tumbled over one another in their urgency as he demanded more information. “Are they keeping him in the hospital? Does he need help?”

 _“Sandburg, take a breath, maybe two. I repeat, he’ll be okay,”_ Simon directed, and then continued, _“I’m just waiting until they finish cleaning him up and stitching the wound. Then I’ll drive him home, and probably stay the night. I just thought you might want to know.”_

“ _Might?_ What the hell does that mean? Of course I want to know,” he shot back angrily.

 _“Down, boy. I’m just the messenger, not the guy who shot your partner,”_ Banks retorted, but his tone was mild.

Getting a grip on himself, Blair swallowed. “I’m sorry, Simon,” he apologized. “It’s just … I worry so much about him, you know?” He might have said more, but the dangerous cracking in his voice made him stop.

 _“Yeah, I think I do,_ ” Banks rumbled. _“He’s okay, Blair. But, uh, look, maybe it’s none of my business … oh, hell, he misses you. Maybe more than he lets you know.”_

Blair covered his eyes with one hand as he bowed forward, fighting the sudden roil of nausea in his gut at the thought that Jim had been hurt and he hadn’t been there, and maybe Jim had needed him, wanted him there to help. Clearing his throat, he replied unsteadily, “I miss him, too. But … but this is what he really w-wants, Simon. To be on his own again. Tr-transitions are hard and Jim doesn’t take ch-change well. But, trust me, I’d be there if I didn’t know, know this is … this is what he wants. To be free of me. To be independent again.” As if realizing that he might be saying too much after the dislocating shock of the news, he took a breath and went on quickly, “I really appreciate you letting me know what happened and that he’s okay. I, well, maybe you could say ‘hi’ to him for me and, uh, tell him to call me when he’s up to it. So he can tell me himself, you know, that everything’s fine. That, that the dials aren’t giving him a hard time. Stuff like that.”

 _“I’ll tell him,_ ” Simon assured him. _“Look, I’d better go see if he’s ready to go. You alright?”_

“Me? Alright? Yeah … yeah, sure,” Sandburg replied softly, though his voice lacked conviction. “Thanks again, Simon. Uh, ‘bye.”

 _“Good-bye, Blair.”_

* * *

Back in Cascade, Banks stared thoughtfully into space, and then he went to retrieve his detective. He found Jim scowling against the bright overhead lights, irritable with pain. Sighing, wishing Sandburg was there, he escorted Ellison out to his car. The drive to the loft was stiff and silent.

“I’m fine,” Jim insisted grumpily, the insistent burning pain in his side making him surly. “Thanks for bringing me home, but I don’t need a baby-sitter – or a nurse.”

“Uh huh,” Simon muttered, not taking the surliness personally and keeping one hand firmly placed on Ellison’s back to steady him as they entered the apartment. “Why don’t you either go sit or lie down, whichever is more comfortable. Did they give you anything for the pain?”

Jim shook his head, his lips thin and twisted as he struggled to resist the pain. “I don’t like to take meds. They put me out,” he grunted. Hunched a little to the side, one hand pressed against the bandage over his wound, he shuffled to a dining room chair. Once settled, he looked longingly at the more comfortable furniture in the living room, but he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to get up again on his own if he sank into one of the lower seats. Christ but his side hurt. Ridiculous for such a minor injury.

“Sandburg said you might have trouble with your dials,” Simon said, as he studied Ellison thoughtfully.

“Sandburg?” Jim exclaimed, irate. “Don’t tell me you bothered him about this!”

“Bothered him?” Banks retorted, rolling his eyes. “He’s your partner. He has a right to know.”

Angrily turning his face away, distracted by the pain, Jim shook his head. “If he was my partner, he’d be here,” he asserted bitterly, “not off somewhere to prove I don’t need him anymore.”

Banks quirked a brow but didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he went into the kitchen to make himself useful by filling a kettle and searching through the cupboards for tea bags. After he found what he wanted, and while he waited for the water to boil, he asked, “If he were here, what would he be doing to help you?”

Jim’s lips thinned, and for a moment Simon wasn’t sure he’d get an answer, but then Ellison shared grudgingly, “He’d help me get a grip on the pain.”

“How would he do that?”

Swallowing, Jim sat straighter and sighed. “He’d help me focus on the dial in my head.”

“Can’t you do that yourself by now?” Banks asked, a slight challenge in his voice.

Stung by the tone, Jim flicked his boss an irritated look, but nodded. “Give me a minute, okay?” he directed, and then closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and his brow furrowed as he concentrated. A minute later, he drew in an easier breath and opened his eyes.

Simon poured the boiling water over the tea bags. “Better?” he asked as he watched the water darken.

“Yeah.”

Tossing the used bags into the sink, Simon carried the two large mugs to the table. Sitting down across from Ellison, he observed mildly, “So, he’s right. You don’t really need him anymore.”

“Guess not,” Jim muttered, lifting a mug to blow across the top of it, hoping to cool it a little.

“You are so full of crap,” Banks accused, his tone light but his expression deadly serious. “Why’d you make him go, if you want him around so badly you can hardly think straight?”

“What?” Ellison blurted, stunned by the direction the conversation had taken. “I didn’t make him go anywhere. Leaving was his choice.”

“That’s not what he told me,” Simon replied archly. “He says that this is what you want. That you want him gone. Want _your_ independence back.” Shaking his head, he muttered sarcastically, “Not that I didn’t notice that you’ve been surly as hell with him lately. Or that it was never _your_ independence that was in question.”

Jim’s eyes flickered away. “He wants to get on with his life.”

“He told me he misses you. Freaked out and nearly lost it to hear you’d gotten hurt. Wants you to call so he can be sure you’re fine,” Simon countered firmly. “He’s not off somewhere because he doesn’t want to be here, Jim. Did you ever talk to him like I suggested? Tell him how you feel?”

Looking beleaguered and vastly irritated, Jim shook his head. “I can’t,” he grated harshly.

“Can’t … or won’t?” Banks contested. Sighing, he shook his head. “For all that he’s apparently some kind of genius, he’s not a mind-reader. Don’t you owe him a bit of honesty?” When Jim didn’t reply and wouldn’t meet his eyes, Simon said softly, knowingly, “Funny. I wouldn’t’ve ever pegged you for a coward.”

Jim flinched at the words, and his grip tightened on the mug, his knuckles whitening. “You don’t understand,” he finally rasped hoarsely. “What I want … I can’t ask him to give me what I want. Wouldn’t be fair or right. He’s got a whole life ahead of him. He’s lived up to our deal. I can’t expect him to give me more years … to keep putting his own dreams on hold.”

Leaning back in his chair, Banks tapped his fingertips on the table as he thought about how hard to push, and whether he had the right to push at all. Wondered if his suspicions about how these men felt abut one another were right, or if he was somewhere out in left field. Blowing a long breath, deciding a little push couldn’t hurt, he again leaned forward, his tone intense as he said soberly, “Jim, as your boss, none of this is my business so long as you can do your job, and I think Blair’s right – you can manage your senses just fine now. And, as your boss, I guess there’re some things I don’t really want to know. But, as your friend, I have to tell you that I think you’re making the biggest damned mistake of your life if you let that man go without telling him the truth about what you feel.”

Startled, Jim looked up into eyes that were warm with understanding and concern. He flushed in embarrassment and his gaze jerked away. “What I feel doesn’t matter,” he sighed, defeated.

“You don’t know that,” Simon insisted, figuring his suspicions were now confirmed. “You can’t know that unless you risk telling him.” Sorrowfully, seeing no lessening of Jim’s rigid stance, he sighed. “Trust him, Jim,” he urged, his voice low, almost raw. “Love’s no good if you hold it all inside, pretending it doesn’t exist. He’s hurting, I could hear it in his voice. Give him a chance to make up his own mind about what future he wants – he can’t do that if he doesn’t know all the options that are open to him.”

When Jim still didn’t relent, Simon’s lips thinned with frustration. “Go on. Go lie down. The doctor said you need to rest. I’ll crash in his room tonight.”

Wordlessly, Ellison pushed himself to his feet and slowly crossed the room.

The next morning, once they’d eaten breakfast and he was assured that Jim would be fine on his own, Banks decided to head into the office. But, pausing at the door, he couldn’t resist making one last attempt to get through to his stubborn friend. Casting discretion to the wind, he turned back to face Jim, who was still sitting at the table, and said heavily, “You’ve got the rest of the week off and you’re a damned fool if you don’t spend some of that time breathing some good clean sea air. That kid worships you. You want my opinion?” But he held up his hand to cut off any answer he might not want to hear. “Regardless, you’re going to hear it anyway. I think he loves you as much or more than you love him. I think you’re breaking his heart by your stubborn silence.”

With that, Simon opened the door and stalked out, closing it firmly if not quite slamming it behind him.

* * *

Jim sat for a long time, staring at the closed door and trying to wrap his head around everything Simon had said, both that morning and the evening before. He’d never imagined that anyone would ever guess how he felt about Blair, but Simon had known them both, observed them both, for years now. Knew the two of them as well as anyone did, maybe better than they knew themselves.

Was it possible? Could Simon be right that Blair loved him? His throat thickened and his chest felt tight, stricken by the idea that his silence was hurting Blair. God, the _last_ thing he ever wanted was to hurt the kid. The very last thing. His teeth clenched, and he fought to stop the trembling of his body, his hands fisted on the table. All he wanted was what was best for Sandburg. He didn’t want to make unreasonable demands. Didn’t want the kid to feel obligated to stay or be uncomfortable around him. Didn’t want to risk whatever friendship they might be able to sustain once the closeness of their partnership ended. And, dear God, he didn’t want to know the kind of pain he’d feel if Blair left him anyway.

Coward? Was he a coward? Was that what it came down to?

The shrill ring of the phone jerked him out of his thoughts. Glad of the distraction, he moved as quickly to answer it as his stiff muscles and protesting wound allowed. “Ellison,” he said tightly, realizing his pain dial had slipped again.

 _“Oh, man, you sound like you’re hurting,”_ Blair said, concern rich in his voice. _“I’m sorry, I guess I should have waited until you felt up to calling me, but I really wanted to know how you’re doing, you know?”_

“I know,” Jim replied, his voice thick. “I’m … I’m doing okay,” he lied, unaccountable tears burning his eyes at the unexpected sound of Blair’s voice.

 _“You don’t sound okay,”_ Sandburg insisted gently. _“Maybe I should come back to town for a few days.”_

“No, no, you don’t have to do that,” Ellison protested, reflexively resisting being a bother, a burden. But, at the stricken silence, the hitch of breath and the sudden near skip in Blair’s heart rate, he knew it had been the wrong answer. He could hear the hurt and couldn’t stand it. Screwing up his courage, he said tentatively, “But, uh, I’ve got some time off. Maybe, if I wouldn’t be in your way, I could visit for a couple days? Simon suggested the sea air might do me some good.”

 _“Sure, Jim, if you want,”_ Blair hastened to reply, irresistible and unexpected joy sparking, his pleasure at the idea of Jim wanting to spend time with him innocently naked in his voice. _“But should you be driving yourself? I could come get you.”_

Smiling wanly at the care and concern, the eagerness to see him, Jim demurred gently. “It’s not much more than a scratch, Chief. In a day or two, I’m sure I won’t even notice it anymore. Give me the directions.” After Blair had complied, he said warmly, “Thanks for checking on me, Chief. I’ll … I’ll let you know if I change my mind about coming.”

 _“Uh, sure, Jim, whatever works for you, man,”_ Blair assured him, uncertainty again resonating in his voice. _“Take it easy, okay? Get the rest you need.”_

“I will,” he replied hoarsely. After he hung up, he rolled his shoulder gingerly, and then cautiously stretched, testing his range of movement. Deciding he could drive the relatively short distance without too much difficulty, he went upstairs to pack, knowing that if he didn’t go right away, he might lose his nerve.

And if he lost his nerve, he might never know if Simon was right.

But he did know that he’d always feel like a fool, and probably hate himself for the rest of his life, for never finding out.

* * *

Blair’s hands were trembling when he set down the phone. He took a shaky breath, letting the relief of knowing that Jim really was alright register as reality, not simply a desperate hope. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of his friend visiting him here, in this tiny cottage. Looking around, he decided he’d be comfortable enough sleeping on the old sofa, lumps and all, but … but the proximity worried him. There was nowhere to hide in this cottage, nowhere for him to retreat to when he needed respite from the constant requirement to mask his true feelings, his needs and wants. His desires. His only retreat would be the hours he spent in the evenings at Starbucks.

On the other hand, Jim was saying that he wanted to visit, wanted to spend time with him. Would go out of his way, given his wound, to come here and be with him. That was a whole lot different from simply being willing to tolerate his presence a while longer in the loft, out of kindness or a sense of obligation. So, despite all the pressures and turmoil of the last few months, despite Jim’s natural need for independence, this was a pretty clear signal that their friendship was at least secure. His tension eased and the trembling gradually stopped as he let that awareness sink in. Jim still wanted him to be some part of Ellison’s life, and that was something to be immensely grateful for.

Of course, Jim might well change his mind and not come at all. Probably would change his mind. Which was okay, too. Maybe the best outcome of all. Blair would know their friendship was intact without having to cope with juggling too many, too complicated emotions in a space too small to hide within. Taking a deep breath, he allowed himself to enjoy the warmth that had been bubbling in his chest since Jim had asked if he could visit, and a slow smile lit his face.

Then his eye caught the clock on the desk, and he realized that the morning was fast disappearing. He’d helped Bob in the gardens before making the phone call to Jim, and he still had a mountain of work to accomplish to finish off his dissertation. He wanted it done and over, so that he could turn his attention to writing the document that really mattered – the paper about Jim, for Jim. The paper that Blair hoped would allow Ellison to see himself and his gifts the way he did, as courageous, selfless, wondrous, miraculous and beautiful; gifts that weren’t burdens but which allowed Jim to be what he most wanted to be: a protector of the innocent, a warrior who stood between his community, his tribe, and whatever might threaten their wellbeing. More prosaically, Blair also wanted Jim to have the document in case he ever needed anyone else to have a thorough understanding of what he needed, in case he ever got into trouble with his senses and Blair wasn’t there, wasn’t a part of his world at some future place and time, for whatever reason. Like if he got run over by a bus or something, he thought wryly as he settled into the chair and powered up the computer. Because unless Jim pushed him away, or he was dead and buried, he couldn’t personally imagine not being nearby, within helping distance, for all the remaining days of his life.

But he could ponder those questions later. Within moments, he’d disciplined his thoughts and was buried deep in the principles and philosophies that, he argued, needed addressing if society was ever to overcome a very human predilection toward criminal self-interest.

* * *

Parking the truck beside the old Volvo, Jim took a moment to enjoy the serenity of the location. The weathered cottage covered with blossoming vines seemed rooted to the earth, as if it, too, had grown there naturally. The ocean was a deep indigo under the softer, paler blue of the sky, the pristine whitecaps on the waves rolling into shore a counterpart to the soft, fluffy clouds floating above. There was only the sound of the surf and the gentle rustle of leaves in the perpetual wind that blew in off the sea. The air was scented with salt and the delicate, earthy perfume of flowers, grass and trees. Tilting his head, he amended his inventory of sounds to include a woman’s light laughter, emanating from the house on the bluff behind him, and the constant, rhythmic click of computer keys from the cottage. He smiled as he listened more closely still, and heard the soft susurration of Blair’s breathing and the steady drum of his heart. Pulling himself back before he could zone on the sounds that made him think of home, he got out of the truck, closing the door quietly. Carryall bag in hand, he ambled to the cottage door, open to catch the breeze and cool the interior in the heat of the day.

His hands were damp, and he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to more than a little trepidation. He still didn’t know what he was going to say. Didn’t have a clue on how to broach the subject of what he wanted most in his life. _Who_ he wanted most in his life. Pausing to lean his shoulder against the frame of the doorway, he took a moment to simply enjoy watching Blair work, the light of the window creating a nimbus around his curls, his sturdy fingers tapping non-stop. Jim shook his head, still amazed even after more than three years of living and working with the guy, at how effortlessly Blair conjured up words and sentences, how smoothly and continuously his thoughts flowed. For a moment, he felt like an intruder and nearly regretted coming, but then he remembered the unconscious joy in Sandburg’s voice when he’d asked if he might visit. And he took heart from Simon’s words: _‘That kid worships you. I think he loves you as much or more than you love him. I think you’re breaking his heart by your stubborn silence.’_

If Simon was right, and his silence was hurting Blair, hurting him badly, well, then he had to make that right. If coming clean, if putting his needs and wants into words would give him, them, a chance at a life they both might want, then the risk of disclosure had to be worth the gamble. If only he knew what to say, could be sure he got it right ….

Well, he couldn’t stand there forever, hoping for divine inspiration. Taking a breath to steady himself, he cleared his throat and said into the silence, “Hey, Chief. I’m here.”

Blair’s reaction to the sound of his voice was immensely gratifying. The grad student spun around, first gaping at him, and then the widest, most incredibly bright smile of delighted welcome illuminated the beautiful face and sparkled in those magnificent eyes. “Jim!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet to rush across the small floor space to take his arm and gently haul him inside, guiding him to what looked like the most comfortable chair in the place. And all the while, Blair was nearly babbling. “Man, I didn’t expect you _today!_ You’re supposed to be resting, not driving all over the countryside. Are you okay? Here, sit here and let me get you something to drink. Oh, man, it is SO good to see you. I was really worried, you know. When Simon called. What were you doing? Playing hero again? Taking the focus off Joel? I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. But, you’re okay, and that’s all that matters, right? You _are_ okay, right? Not hurting too much? Your dials are fine?”

Laughing, relaxing at the very obvious pleasure Sandburg felt to have him there, Jim raised a calming hand and broke into the river of words. “Whoa, slow down, Sandburg. It’s good to see you, too. And no, I wasn’t playing hero, just doing my job. Yes, I’m fine, not hurting too much. Yes, some juice would be good, if you’ve got any.”

“Got any? Of course I’ve got juice. What would you like? Apple? Cranberry? Guava?” Blair offered in a flurry as he moved into the kitchen area, took two glasses from the cupboard and opened the door of the ancient refrigerator.

“Cranberry,” Jim chose with a broad smile.

“Coming right up,” Blair assured him, and poured Jim’s beverage first, and then a glass of guava juice for himself. After handing Jim’s to him, Sandburg perched on the arm of the sofa, as close as he could get without being in the chair with Ellison, and said, “Okay, tell me what happened. You were working on the Matheson case when I left. I want all the details.”

Relaxing, the recounting of the case holding no anxiety, not like the other things he’d come to say, Jim settled back and brought Sandburg up to date. Blair listened closely, frowning when Jim told him how he’d passed out.

“Pain spike?” he asked with concern.

“Yeah,” Jim allowed with a grimace. “The wound itself wasn’t that bad. It shouldn’t have knocked me out.”

Biting his lip, Sandburg looked out over the ocean. “We’re going to have to come up with strategies for you to be able to deal with being wounded. Maybe turn down the pain dial before going into situations that might result in injury, to keep the spike from happening with the shock of the attack. It was okay this time, but could have serious repercussions in a different situation, like if there was more than one bad guy and you still needed to function even if your partner could handle one of them.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Jim agreed.

“You need more than one option though,” Blair ruminated. “If an attack is unexpected, then you wouldn’t have the dial turned down. I need to think of something else.”

“Fine, but you don’t have to come up with an answer right now,” Ellison replied. “Tomorrow or the next day will do just as well.”

“You’re right,” Sandburg allowed, the frown of concentration disappearing, chased away by another bright grin. “Oh, I have to make up the bed for you,” he remembered, leaping to his feet and dashing into the adjoining room.

“Chief, you don’t need to do that,” Jim protested. “I can bunk on the couch, or even get a room somewhere close if I’m crowding your space here.”

“No way, man,” Blair laughed. “You’re my guest, and the guest gets the bed. Besides, the scratch on my back is nearly healed and you’re still one of the walking wounded. This’ll just take me a minute.”

By the time the bed was made, it was time to think about lunch. Blair suggested they go into town, maybe try one of the restaurants with patios that looked over the ocean. He suggested they take the truck, as he thought it would be more comfortable for Jim than his car, but he insisted on driving to give Jim a break. On the way up the lane, he spotted Bob and Charlie on their deck, so he stopped for a moment to introduce Jim to them, so they wouldn’t be concerned seeing someone else at the cottage while he was at work.

“Bob was a State Trooper,” Blair said as he made the introductions. “Jim’s a detective with Major Crime in Cascade. You guys can talk shop, or maybe do some fishing, while I’m slaving away at Starbucks.”

The other men laughed, and Charlie invited Jim to join them for dinner that night, to help fill his evening while Blair was at work. “She’s a great cook, man,” Sandburg interjected when Ellison hesitated so, seeing that Blair hoped he’d accept the invitation, he did, with thanks.

“I can cook for myself,” Jim pointed out as Blair turned onto the highway.

“I know that – I’ve been eating what you consider haute cuisine for years now,” Sandburg replied teasingly. “But you’re here to rest and recuperate, so for the first day at least, you’re just going to take it easy and relax.”

A moment later, Blair was driving him through town, pointing out shops he might find of interest if he wanted to do some exploring later in the week, chatting about some of the people he’d met, making Jim laugh with his anecdotes of life in a small town. For lunch, Sandburg chose a quaint restaurant/gift shop combination that was purported to have good food and great views on the back patio. They found the reputation of the place was right on both counts, and lingered over lunch as they people-watched, enjoying the antics of kids on the beach. After eating, they went for a slow walk along the shore. Though it was all enjoyable, Jim couldn’t find the right opportunity to say any of what he’d come to say. The tables on the patio hadn’t given enough privacy, and there was nowhere on the busy beach for a quiet, maybe life-changing conversation. Resigned to having to wait, wishing he didn’t feel grateful for the respite, he told himself he’d get to it and allowed himself to simply enjoy Sandburg’s effervescence. The kid really did seem inordinately pleased that he’d come.

They were on their way back to the truck when Blair said, “Well, it’s getting late. I’d better just go straight to work. You know your way back to the cottage, and I know you’ll have a great evening with Bob and Charlie. They’re terrific people, easy to be around. Don’t feel you have to wait up for me. If you’re tired, just go to bed.”

Confused by the sudden shift of the conversation, having lost track of time, Jim asked, “But how will you get home tonight?”

“Oh, I usually just walk along the shore,” Sandburg explained with a casual wave back the way they’d strolled earlier. “It only takes about twenty minutes and saves on gas. I’ll be home before ten-thirty.”

Jim nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you later, then,” he said agreeably, though the offhand comment about saving on the gas costs bothered him. Just how tight was Blair finding things economically? He watched Sandburg lope across the sand toward the coffee shop Blair had pointed out on their ramble, and then turned back to the truck. He still thought it was stupid for Sandburg to be paying more than he could evidently afford, and having to put in time at a part-time job to make up the difference, which was fine but kind of a waste of his time, when he could be back home, in the loft, where he belonged.

* * *

Dinner – barbecued chicken and all the fixings, followed by wild blueberry pie – was all that Sandburg had said it would be: great food and even better company. Replete and relaxed, Jim returned to the cottage around nine-thirty and stood looking out at the ocean, enjoying the dying glory of the sunset streaking the sky and reflecting on the water. Glancing over his shoulder at the cottage, he tried to imagine having the conversation he wanted to have in its confined space. He swallowed and shook his head, but neither could he imagine sleeping that night without getting it all off his chest. Looking along the shoreline toward town, he again reflected on Simon’s words, that Blair loved him. The hope of Simon being right continued to ground his determination to express his own feelings. If Simon _was_ right, it was just a matter of meeting one another halfway, and that thought spurred him to walk along the beach, to literally meet Blair halfway on his way back to the cottage.

Sandburg had said it was a twenty minute walk, so when Jim spotted some boulders that offered a comfortable resting place after he’d been pacing along for about ten minutes, he chose a rock and sat down, resting his back against another stone in the tumbled pile. Night was descending quickly, the sky blurring from indigo into black, and a few stars were already visible. The half moon hung low over the undulating ocean, mirrored in shimmering silver swells.

“It’s kinda romantic, I guess,” Jim muttered to himself, his hands again damp with nervous tension, the fine dinner now a heavy lump in his gut. His mouth was dry and his throat felt thick, and all the physical symptoms of his anxiety only served to make him more anxious. How could he talk with ease, make himself clear, if his chest was so tight that he could hardly breathe? God, he was glad he’d decided to do this outdoors and in the dark. He’d’ve suffocated in that small room, and felt too vulnerable, too naked in the lamplight. And then he huffed a wry laugh at himself. “Naked,” he murmured, helplessly shaking his head. “Isn’t that what you want?”

The area around was quiet, and he was glad there were no homes or cottages so close by that the inhabitants would be able to hear what he had to say. His words were for Blair’s ears alone. God, he hoped they were words Blair wanted to hear.

Finally, he heard the soft scrape of sneakers in the sand and he stiffened, his head turning to watch Blair approach. His eyesight allowed him to see Sandburg clearly, but he could tell that Blair was oblivious to his presence. The expression on Sandburg’s face gave him pause. A kind of mixture of trepidation with elation, and he wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was too late to worry about it as Blair was drawing near. When the kid was close enough, he said, his voice low and pitched not to startle too badly, “Thought you might like some company part of the way.”

Sandburg still jumped a bit, one hand lifting to his chest as he gasped softly, amusement warring with startlement. “Oh, man. Don’t do that! You could scare a guy to death.”

“Take a load off,” Jim suggested, patting the rock beside him. “Sit down for a minute to enjoy the evening.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Blair replied as he dropped into place. “You have a good time with Bob and Charlie?”

“Yeah, I did,” Jim said warmly. “They’re nice people.” He hesitated and then forged on, “But I didn’t come out here to meet you to give you a recap of dinner.”

“Oh?”

“Chief, Blair … there’s something I want to tell you, to ask you,” Jim informed him, words coming slow, fumbling for a way to begin. But he immediately heard Blair’s breathing hitch and he could see anxiety flare in the dark blue eyes, see Sandburg’s body tense. He reached out to grip Blair’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s nothing bad, or I hope you won’t think it’s bad. There’s nothing wrong, well, there is, but not what you think. Damn, I’m not doing this right. Don’t look so … so worried, okay? I’m, ah, hoping you’ll like what I have to say.”

Blair took a breath and obviously made an effort to relax. “Okay, Jim. Whatever it is, it’s okay. Just take your time and tell me what’s on your mind. I, uh, it’s probably only what I’ve been expecting anyway.”

The guarded tone of sorrow and the slump of Blair’s shoulder under his hand bothered Jim a lot. “What the hell do you think I came out here to say?” he asked, confused.

Shrugging, Blair looked out at the water, deliberately turning his face away from Jim’s scrutiny. “Just that things have been going okay since I’ve been gone and, uh, well, that I should be thinking of moving out when I finish up here,” he said with hard-won neutrality and only a slight tremor in his voice. But he rallied to add more firmly, “And that was the plan, right? So, you see, that’s okay. I never expected you to put up with me for, well, like forever.”

“Chief, that’s not what I want to say to you,” Jim sighed, his throat once again closing up.

“It’s not?” Blair asked, turning to again look at him, more curious now, less fearful.

“No, just about the opposite.” Dropping his hand from Sandburg’s shoulder, linking his fingers together over his thighs to keep them from shaking, he took a deep breath, swallowed hard and … and still wasn’t sure how to say it. He couldn’t just blurt it out, had to work up to it. “Chief, I know things have been tense for a while now and I know that’s why you thought I wanted you to … to move on. But that’s not what was going on. I was uncomfortable around you, but not because I wanted my space back, but because I didn’t know what to do, how to tell you ….”

“Jim, what’s wrong? You’re not sick or something, are you?” Blair cut in, raw concern in his voice as he jumped to the wrong conclusion. “You know you can tell me anything, man. I mean, whatever it is, I’ll do what I can to help.”

“No, I’m not sick,” Jim assured him. “Just … just miserable, I guess. Can you let me just say this in my own way? Even if it means sitting out here all night, while I beat around the bush?”

“Sure, man,” Blair soothed, gripping his arm lightly, but bracingly, as if to lend him strength. He’d shifted on the stone so that his whole body was now oriented toward Jim, focused on him, his unconditional support a palpable reality between them.

Jim nodded and looked out toward the dark, distant horizon, gathering his thoughts. “Do you know how unusual your presence has been in my life?” he mused. “How extraordinary your friendship?” When Sandburg simply shrugged and gave a slow shake of his head, but remained silent to allow Jim to find his way, he explained slowly, thoughtfully, “I’ve never known anyone else who was only focused on my wellbeing, who made that their priority. Not even when I was a child. Never. Until I met you. I know I’ve bitched a lot about the tests, and I’ve been uncomfortable about your dissertation but I never told you how … how grateful I’ve been and, uh, humbled, I guess, by the time you take with me, your efforts to make my life easier, and to help me do my job better. You’ve made a huge difference in my life, changed it. Made it good.”

When his voice cracked, Jim stopped to regain control of himself. His jaw flexed and he swallowed, sniffed and took a breath. Once again, Blair reached out to grip his arm, to ground him, to be there for him and, this time, he laid his own hand over Blair’s, to hold their contact. “Even a few weeks ago, after all that shit in Mexico, after I’d given you a hard time over Ventriss and was sloughing you off when you tried to tell me about Veronica, you didn’t back away. Didn’t leave me mired in my own shit. Kept trying to help. After I blew up at you for no good reason, that night you left, I knew you were angry. But I thought you were angry with me – you deserved to be. But that wasn’t it. You were angry with Veronica because she’d hurt me. Nobody has ever cared if anybody hurt me before.”

“Ah, man,” Blair sighed, gently squeezing his arm. “You deserve so much better out of life, you know? You give so damned much. Try so hard to do good.”

Jim drew a shuddering breath and blew it out slowly. “I don’t want you to leave,” he finally said. “I don’t want you to ever leave. Selfish bastard that I am, I want you to always be my partner.”

“It’s not selfish if that’s what I want, too,” Blair murmured, a tentative smile playing over his lips. “Is that what you really want, Jim? Because, man, if it is, I’m down with that. Once I get my doctorate, maybe Simon would even pay me for hanging around.”

“It’s what I really want, Chief,” Jim affirmed, hope quivering in his chest. “But, uh, that’s not all I want. And that brings me back to why I’ve been such a bastard. I’ve been trying to hide it, didn’t want to … to ruin what we had. But Simon says I’m a fool, and that my silence has only been … been hurting you. He says you can’t make your own decisions if you don’t have all the information.”

Blair’s smile faded and he drew his hand back from under Jim’s light clasp. His head bowed, hair falling forward to again hide his face, and Jim thought how deftly Blair had learned how to hide from him. Except he couldn’t hide the sound of his breathing or the beat of his heart.

“You, uh, you want me to stay but you’ve fallen in love with someone, is that it?” Sandburg asked, his voice very low, achingly controlled. “You wonder if I’ll mind if she moves into the loft with us?”

Jim shook his head. “You’re partly right,” he allowed, and knew he was shaking. This was it. He had to say it now. “I have fallen in love,” he rasped hoarsely. “With you. I want to be with you, love you, for the rest of my life.”

Blair went very still, every muscle tightening rigidly. “That’s not funny, Jim,” he said flatly, though Ellison could hear the echo of pain.

“I’m not joking,” he replied tightly, defensively, feeling like a fool – sorrier than words could say that Simon had evidently been wrong, and Blair didn’t want to hear this. “I don’t expect anything from you. But you need to know, so you can decide what it means for us, for our friendship. Whether it changes where you want to live. Or maybe whether you want to keep working with me. But … how I feel isn’t going to change. I love you. I’ll always love you. And, God help me, I don’t know how I’d live without you.”

“You love me?” Blair choked, his voice little more than a tremulous whisper. “Want to … to make love to me?”

“I think that’s what I just said, Chief,” he replied dryly, taking refuge in caustic humour as he reached desperately for some shred of dignity. “Some genius you’re turning out to be. Do I need to write it down for you?”

His head still bowed, Blair lifted his hands to cover his face. His shoulders jerked spasmodically, and Jim shook his head. Well, what else could he expect? The whole thing was ridiculous. No wonder Sandburg was laughing at him.

But then he heard the muted, strangled sob and realized that Blair wasn’t laughing. “Ah, Chief,” he sighed with despair, “I didn’t say this to hurt you.” Uncertain, not at all sure his touch would still be welcome, he turned to draw Blair into his arms, wrapping him in a secure hug. “Don’t … I’m sorry. Tell me I haven’t completely screwed things up between us.”

When he heard the hiccupped chuckle, a stuttered, “N-no, you d-don’t underst-stand,’ he was even more confused and his arms fell away, thinking it had only been another mistake to hug Sandburg. “So, fine, laugh,” he growled. Damn it, he couldn’t seem to get anything right.

Blair shifted against him, pulling away just far enough to hastily wipe the wetness from his face before he twisted around to grip Jim’s shoulders. Giving Ellison a shake, as if to get his attention and force his gaze back to Sandburg’s, Blair said in broken rush, “It was just the shock, man. I’ve been, been hiding it so long. Never thought, didn’t even dare hope, was scared you’d, you’d throw me out or, I don’t know, be too uncomfortable with it to stand being around me anymore.”

“Hiding what?” Jim demanded harshly, his features frozen, afraid to hope, sure there was no hope. “That you knew how I felt and thought it was hysterical? That you couldn’t wait to get away from me?”

Sobering immediately, Blair shook his head. “No, you big dope,” he chided solemnly. “Hiding that I love you so damned much that it was tearing me apart. You’re … you’re everything to me, Jim. My whole life.” Lifting a hand to stroke Jim’s cheek, smiling bemusedly as if he was mesmerized by the feel of Jim’s skin, he added, his voice again unsteady, “I’ve been trying so hard to protect you from me, my dreams and desires. When you … you said you love me, and I could finally let go and be honest with you, I couldn’t help it. I felt like this huge rock on my back that’d been flattening me, driving me into the ground, was suddenly gone, and this, this wall I’ve put around my feelings came crashing down, and, and, well, I guess I lost it there for a minute. God, Jim, I love you so much, with everything that I am.”

Tears blurred Jim’s eyes as he pulled Blair back tight against his chest and buried his face in curls that smelled like coffee. They clung together wordlessly as the waves crashed upon the shore, and then Jim felt Blair shift in his arms, and warm lips kissed his neck, and then his cheek. He turned his head to cover those pliant, generous lips with his own. Blair’s mouth parted for him and their kiss deepened, tongues dancing hotly as they pressed their bodies together. Blair’s fingers were caressing his face, his head, holding him strongly, demandingly. And his hands were roaming over Blair’s back, slipping down to clutch his ass and pull him closer still, until Blair was straddling him, their groins inflamed and rubbing urgently together. But when Jim shifted for better leverage, his wounded side protested and he grunted, pulling away, gasping for air as he sought to turn down a dial that had drifted too high to better savour the incredible feel of Sandburg in his arms, under his lips and hands.

Panting, Blair gripped his shoulders, squinting in the darkness. “What?” he gasped, and then seemed to recall himself. “Oh, God, your side. Dammit, I’m sorry. I forgot. Okay, let’s slow down. Take a deep breath, Jim, let it out slowly. That’s it. Close your eyes, man, concentrate. Find the dial. You’ve got it? Yeah, you do. Okay, that’s it, turn it down, a little more. Better? That better?”

Jim took another deep breath and nodded. “Sorry, kid,” he muttered. “Guess I’m not up to a lot of calisthenics, here.” Looking around, he added wryly, “And I’m too old to enjoy the grit of sand when I’m making love to someone. Maybe we should head back to the cottage.”

“Good idea,” Blair agreed warmly, climbing off Jim’s body and then offering a hand to steady Ellison as he stood. “I think maybe I should spend the night on the couch. Give you some room to recover.”

Jim smiled as he shook his head and looped a long arm around Sandburg’s shoulders, drawing him in close to his side and matching his step to the shorter stride. “Bad idea,” he said firmly. Dropping a kiss on Blair’s brow, he observed quietly, “You’re too worried about giving me space, Chief. I’ll rest better with you beside me.”

Blair looped an arm around his waist. “Whatever works for you, man,” he agreed, love resonating in his low voice.

“So long as it works for you, too, I’m good,” Jim assured him as they ambled slowly back to the cottage. Once there, Blair helped him undress and checked the dressing over his wound before helping Jim to ease down onto the bed.

“Looks like more than a scratch, Ellison,” he grumbled. “You should have said something sooner. We might have pulled some stitches.”

“I’m fine,” Jim insisted. Suddenly, a smile lit his face as he looked up, drinking in the beauty of Blair’s features in the soft lamplight. “Better than fine. Better than I think I’ve ever been.”

“Me, too,” Blair smiled back as he stripped off his own clothing, turned out the light, and climbed into the bed, pulling the light coverings up over them both before settling down, his head on Jim’s shoulder and one arm around Jim’s chest. Sighing contentedly, his breath a warm tickle on Jim’s skin, he murmured, “We’ve got the rest of our lives to find out just how good this will be, man. I promise it’ll be good. As good as I can make it.”

Relishing the feel of satin skin against his own, Jim slid his arm around Blair’s back to hold him close. He wanted to say something romantic. Wanted to assure Blair that he’d do all in his power to protect and cherish for the rest of his life. But his damned throat had tightened up again. He swallowed and cleared the blockage as best he could, and then rumbled hoarsely, “You don’t have to promise anything, Chief. Just stay with me. Don’t ever leave me.”

Blair’s arm tightened around him, and lips caressed the pulse point on his throat. “So long as you want me, I’ll stay. Forever, if that’s what you want.”

Staring into the darkness before closing his eyes in relief and gratitude, Jim nodded. “That’s what I want, Blair. Forever.”

* * *

The next morning, they lingered in the bed, hands exploring, caressing, lips paying tribute, but Blair drove Jim more than a little crazy by drawing away before things got too hot and all control was lost. “Nuh uh,” he chuckled unrepentantly when Jim tried to draw him back to continue the deep kiss, and Ellison’s hand strayed too demandingly. “Not until that ‘scratch’ is healed. So, concentrate on getting well, okay, ‘cause, man, stopping when we’re just getting started is, like, really hard!”

“Hard, Chief?” Jim echoed dryly, with a wry glance at Blair’s taut erection and a glum look at his own. “I never figured you for a tease, Sandburg,” he accused with feigned, well, partly feigned, displeasure.

Sandburg snorted. “Cold showers for both of us, Jim,” he dictated, already moving toward the bathroom. “And then I’m going to make you a big breakfast. Gotta keep your strength up.”

“Well, I guess I should be grateful that you want to keep _something_ up,” Ellison groused as he climbed out of the bed, and grinned at the answering snicker. “Shower with a friend?” he suggested hopefully.

“Always ready to do my bit for the environment, man,” Blair laughed as he turned around, but the smile faded to an expression of absolute adoration as he looked at Jim. “God, I hope this isn’t just a really, really fantastic dream,” he whispered poignantly, as if afraid that voicing the thought any louder would make the world shatter around him.

Smiling gently, his heart aching with the love he felt, Jim drew him close and nuzzled his hair. “No dream,” he murmured. “Nightmare, maybe – but you already know what a bear I can be, so I’m guessing you don’t hold that against me.”

Hugging him tightly, possessively, in return, Blair growled, “Yeah, well, maybe. But you’re _my_ bear, and I love you even when you’re grouchy.”

“Thank God for that,” he sighed gratefully, and then added more prosaically, “C’mon. I’m hungry. Let’s clean up.”

“Such a romantic,” Blair laughed, but he took Jim’s hand and eagerly led him from the room.

* * *

For the next three days, they took long walks on the beach, and talked for hours, healing the hurts of the last several months. Blair didn’t go near his computer, but he caught Jim eying it uncomfortably more than once, and he finally said, “You’re worried about the paper, aren’t you?”

Jim shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah. I guess. Partly because I know how important it is to get it done, if you’re going to get your doctorate in time for the fall session, but you haven’t worked on it at all since I got here.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Jim, but I’ve got a lot of it done already. I won’t need the two or three months I told Eli it would take to finish it. And, even if it didn’t get done, it wouldn’t matter,” he asserted. “I don’t need to finish my doctorate to keep working with you, and that’s what’s most important to me.”

Quirking a brow, Jim looked away and nodded, accepting the reassurance, but still evidently uncomfortable. When he didn’t say anything more, Blair offered, “Look, I know part of what bothers you is our deal that I get to write about you.”

But Jim held up a hand, cutting him off. “You don’t have to explain,” he said. “Okay, yeah, I … I feel funny knowing that you’re writing stuff down about me, but I also trust you to protect me.”

Blair studied him, debating whether to tell him about the new subject of his dissertation, but wanting it to be a surprise when he got the doctorate without using the sentinel data. More, he wanted the paper he was going to write for Jim to be a surprise, a gift of sorts, something concrete he could give of himself but, at the moment, it was just an idea, a good intention. So he just nodded and then said, “Okay. Just be assured that nobody will see what I write specifically about _you_.”

“They’ll just see what you write about ‘the subject’,” Jim sighed. “Yeah, I understand that.”

The sag in Jim’s shoulders, the weary sigh, proved to be too much for Sandburg. “That’s it,” he said, categorically. “I’m not going to have you worried about this for the next few months.” Taking Jim by the arm, he practically dragged him to the chair in front of the desk. He powered up the computer and opened his diss file. “Read,” he commanded.

“Blair, I don’t have to –”

“Just read it, Jim,” Sandburg urged. “You’ll see why almost immediately.”

Frowning unhappily, Ellison turned to focus on the screen. “The Mark of Cain?” he muttered in confusion, and then read further. A few moments later, he looked up, gaping in disbelief. “This isn’t about sentinels,” he stated weakly, confused and evidently _very_ surprised.

“No, it’s not,” Blair replied, reaching out to fondly stroke Jim’s head. Wrapping his hand around the nape of Jim’s neck, he explained, “I couldn’t do it; couldn’t take the risk of anyone putting two and two together. Hell, it’s bad enough that Brackett made the intuitive leap years ago. I won’t be publishing anything about you or sentinels for a long time, and maybe never. It’s your secret, Jim. Yours to tell, or not tell.”

Relief washed over Jim’s face. He turned in the chair, drawing Blair close between his legs, and rested his head on Sandburg’s chest. “Thank you,” he stammered. “I didn’t expect … God, thank you.”

When Blair went to work that afternoon, Jim sat down to read the rest of the as-yet-unfinished paper. Very impressed, he found himself wishing he’d read more of Blair’s work over the years, and resolved to ask to see some of it, maybe all of it. But he also found himself wondering if he was asking too much in wanting Blair to give up a sure-fire job and future in anthropology to keep working with him. It seemed a waste, somehow, of such a brilliant mind and he could now understand better than he had why Stoddard had been so keen to warn them off.

But he also couldn’t imagine not having Blair as his backup, however selfish that made him feel.

So he resolved to do the best he could to, henceforth, ensure Blair knew how much he was appreciated and loved.

And that meant doing a bit more than a little exploratory touching and some heavy-duty kissing.

That evening, as he had every evening, he walked down the beach to meet Sandburg halfway. “I read your paper,” he said. “It’s really impressive.”

Smiling up at him, Blair replied happily, “I’m glad you think so.”

Jim dropped a kiss on his lips and then looped his arm around Blair’s shoulders, enjoying the warmth of Sandburg’s arm around his waist as they ambled through the darkness. When they got home, Blair was surprised to see an open bottle of wine and an envelope propped against a vase with a single red rose on the coffee table in the dimly lit living area. Quirking his brow with a glance of bemusement at Ellison, he opened the card while Jim poured the wine.

Inside, he found a card with a painting of a surly-looking bear on the front. Opening it, he read, _“Blair, I can never say it often enough, or well enough, but even when I’m grumpy, I love you. I always will. Jim.”_

Sandburg’s eyes misted, and he had to sniff and clear his throat, blinking rapidly, before he looked up with a gamin grin. “Pretty romantic – for a bear,” he murmured teasingly, but was very obviously touched.

Jim handed him a glass of wine. “I thought you might want to keep the card handy,” he offered diffidently, “to remind you on the bad days of how I really feel.”

Blair nodded, amused, as they clinked their glasses, and both took a healthy sip. “Mmm, this is good,” Sandburg sighed. And then he moved closer to draw Jim’s head down, to kiss him slowly and deeply, knowing the rich taste of the wine would mingle with whatever he tasted like to Jim.

When they parted, Jim took his glass away and set them both on the coffee table. “I want to taste you,” he said with quiet meaning. “Drink you.”

Blair felt a shiver of heat ripple through his body, but he shook his head. “You’re not well enough healed yet.”

“I don’t have to be healed for what I have in mind,” Jim replied with a seductive smile as he ran his hands down Blair’s back and then slipped them under his shirt, to stroke them over warm, smooth skin. Blair quivered under his touch, and Jim’s smile widened as he pulled the shirt off and tossed it on the sofa. He undid the belt, and unbuttoned Blair’s jeans, and then slowly drew down the fly. Slipping his hands under the material on Sandburg’s hips, he shoved the jeans down. Blair kicked off his sneakers, and stepped out of his clothing, so that he was now standing naked in the glimmering light.

“You sure about this?” Blair asked uncertainly, though it was clear his body was aching to be touched, to be loved.

“I’m sure,” Jim returned. “Come over here,” he directed, drawing Blair toward the desk. Jim kissed him and then sat down on the chair. “You see, everything I want is within easy reach,” he said, with a devilish grin.

“I _see_ that you’ve planned this out,” Blair laughed warmly.

“Yep. In the military, they teach you to be clear on both strategy and tactics,” Jim replied smugly. He leaned forward to tongue and then suckle a nipple while his hands roamed over satin skin and silken hair. Blair arched into his mouth, and held his head, a soft moan of pleasure rewarding his efforts. Deftly, he shifted Blair until his hips were supported against the desk, and then Jim turned his attention to the main event of the evening. His warm hands gently kneaded Blair’s balls while he blew on the tip of the engorged penis which, in this position, was helpfully right in front of his face. His hands roamed further back, to cup Blair’s buttocks as he began to delicately lick around the tip, and Blair groaned as he tried to restrain himself from thrusting his hips forward.

Jim looked up and found Blair watching him intently, flushed with desire. “Do whatever comes naturally, Blair,” he offered. “You won’t hurt me.” Then he bent to take Blair’s cock into his mouth, while one hand stroked hard and the other fondled his scrotum.

“Oh God!” Blair gasped, his hands gripping Jim’s shoulders hard as he arched his hips, thrusting into the moist heat, needing the friction. Jim could hear him panting, hear his heart begin to race, could feel the heat of blood engorging Blair’s penis, could taste the pre-cum that leaked from the head. Blair shifted, lifting one foot to brace it beside Jim’s thigh on the chair, to give Jim a better angle and more access, and Jim’s hand drifted back, stroking along the soft, sensitive skin to circle puckered muscle and probe gently.

Blair trembled and moaned deep in his throat, and then he couldn’t stop thrusting as Jim pumped, and sucked and probed, stroking deeper until he found the nub he sought.

Blair spasmed and groaned with wild, inarticulate pleasure. “Yes!” he managed to grate, as he pressed down on Jim’s finger before thrusting strongly. “More,” he pleaded, gasping.

A second finger joined the first, matching the rhythm they set between them, and it was only moments before Blair exploded, hot semen spurting into Jim’s mouth and throat.

And, sucking him dry, Jim drank all Blair could give him.

Panting, Blair clasped his head and drew his face up, away from his groin as he slipped to his knees between Jim’s legs. He bent forward to kiss Jim deeply, lovingly. Pressing against Jim’s body, he could feel that his lover was aroused and he drew away, one hand falling to lightly, gently caress the bulge in Jim’s pants. “We need to do something about this,” he murmured hoarsely. “But, God, I don’t want to hurt you.” Looking up, his eyes wide and dark with mingled passion and concern, he asked, “Do you think you can handle an orgasm without pulling some stitches?”

Jim swallowed. This he hadn’t planned. He’d only thought about pleasuring Blair.

But he needed, ached, to be loved in his own turn. So, he nodded. “I think so. I want to.”

“I can see that,” Blair grinned. Looking away, Blair lightly bit his lip as he thought about the mechanics, and then he nodded. “If I do all the work, maybe ….” His voice drifted off as he drew Jim to his feet and guided him to the bedroom. After helping Jim to undress, he slipped away to the bathroom to swiftly clean himself up and get what he needed. Very quickly, he was back.

Crawling onto the bed, he bent down to kiss Jim’s lips, his eyes and throat, enjoying the feel of Jim’s hands on his body. “I’m going to ride you,” he murmured against Jim’s skin.

“Oh, now wait a minute,” Jim protested, fighting back the thrill in his gut that rose to fill his chest as he gripped Blair’s arms to hold him still. “Are you ready for that?”

“Oh yeah,” Blair growled deeply, passionately. “So ready.” But then he grinned and held up the tube of lubrication he’d brought into the bed with him. “But you can play a bit, to make sure, while I, uh, enjoy this _magnificent_ body.”

Jim snorted but allowed Sandburg to coat the fingers of his right hand, and then he put those fingers to work as Blair paid homage to his chest, and then his belly … and then his groin. “Oh, God,” he rasped when Blair began to lave his penis and to coat it liberally with the gel. Jim shuddered, nearly mindless with desire as Blair played with him, fingers first light and teasing, then stroking firmly, lips caressing, then sucking.

And then Blair moved to straddle him, and to sink slowly down upon him, until he was encased in tight, rippling heat, and he cried out, needing to thrust. But Blair’s strong knees gripped his hips, holding them down, and then Blair was arching his back, flexing his thighs, and riding him, pumping up and down, slowly at first, and then faster, until Jim thought he’d scream with the need to thrust back, deeply and more deeply still. Finally, before he was whimpering with desire, Blair released him, and it only took two deep thrusts as Blair dropped down to meet him and he was buried deep. He gripped Blair’s hips and came with a garbled, raw grunting moan.

Blair held him inside, tight and secure, while he caught his breath, and then slowly drew away. Stretching out beside him, Blair reached across his chest to tentatively, very lightly touch the bandage and asked with hoarse, anxious concern, “You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, babe, you didn’t hurt me,” Jim sighed breathily, wrapping his arms around his lover and drawing Blair down onto his chest. “And if you did, I don’t care.”

He felt the smile against his skin, and he caressed Blair’s back and buttocks. “Did I hurt you?” Jim asked, worried.

“Nuh uh,” Blair sighed contentedly. “For a bear, you double pretty well for a damned fine stallion. I could get real used to riding you.”

Snickering, Jim buried his face in Blair’s sweat-dampened curls. “You make it so easy to love you,” he murmured.

“Yep, that’s me. Easy. Pretty cheap, too,” Blair chuckled, turning his face to kiss Jim’s throat. “Won’t cost you a dime to let me move upstairs and share your bed.”

“Sounds like too good a deal to pass up,” Jim sighed with sleepy satisfaction.

“Better believe it,” Blair replied smugly. “And I come with a lifetime, satisfaction guaranteed warranty.”

* * *

The brill of the phone woke them the next morning. Blair scrambled out of the bed and dashed into the living room. “Hello?”

 _“Blair, sorry to bother you,”_ Simon said diffidently. _“But, uh, I’m wondering if you know where Jim is. I’ve called to check on him a couple times, but there’s no answer at the loft.”_

“Uh, yeah, actually, he’s here,” Blair replied lightly, as he rambled back into the bedroom. “He said you suggested he get some sea air.”

 _“As a matter of fact, I did,”_ Simon agreed, and it sounded as if he was smiling. _“Hey, listen. I was looking at the records the other day, and I notice he’s got a lot of leave built up. Maybe he’d like to take some extra time and enjoy the, uh, local attractions down there.”_

Blair snickered, and said, “Well, he might. He seems to be having a pretty good time,” before asking Jim, “Simon wonders if you’d like some extra time off, use up some of your accumulated leave?”

Jim shook his head bemusedly as he smiled back. “Well, you’ve got the place booked for the summer, so we might as well _enjoy_ it. Tell him, yeah. A month, if he can spare me that long.” And he thought that if he contributed toward the rent of the place, maybe Sandburg could and would quit his job.

“How does a month sound?” Blair relayed.

 _“It sounds fine. If things heat up here, I know where to find him, if I need him back any sooner.”_

Able to hear the conversation quite clearly, Jim called, “Thanks, Simon!”

“You hear that?” Blair asked with a laugh. “He says thank you.” Gazing down at his best friend and now his lover, Blair went on more soberly, “He told me why you sent him down here, Simon. So, I … I really thank you, too.”

 _“Ah, that’s okay, kid,”_ Simon allowed magnanimously, really not wanting any details. _“Just glad things worked out. But, uh, you owe me one, Sandburg. I might want to collect some day._ ”

“I owe you a _big_ one, man,” Blair affirmed meaningfully, the double entendre deliberate.

 _“And I think that’s more than enough information, if you don’t mind,”_ Banks replied archly, only half teasing. _“Have a good time, both of you. I’ll expect you back, again both of you, in a month’s time, rested, relaxed and ready to work.”_

“You got it, Captain.”

Setting the phone on the bedside table when the conversation was finished, Blair murmured, “He’s a good friend.”

“Damned good,” Jim agreed as he reached to draw Blair back onto the bed.

“What did he mean, that he might want to collect some day?” Sandburg asked, puzzled by what had seemed a very definite statement of intent on Simon’s part.

“He’s afraid you won’t be interested in staying with the PD, once you’ve finished your PhD. Your friend, Stoddard, was pretty clear about the great things Rainier has in mind for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Blair asked, one brow quirking in amusement. “I think you’d better tell me _exactly_ what Eli said to you guys.”

Jim sobered as he caressed Blair’s stubbled cheek. “I’ve told you most of it. He said you’d get tenure in record time, be a world leader in your field, and maybe even Chancellor some day,” he reported solemnly. “That’s a lot to walk away from, just to work with me.”

Blair traced a fingertip lightly along Jim’s collarbone. “Maybe,” he murmured reflectively. “Fame. Relative fortune. Being Chancellor some day. All that sounds really great, but … that’s not what I’ve dreamed of all my life.” Looking into Jim’s eyes, his own dark with sincerity and love, he went on, “ _You’re_ my dream, Jim. Being with you, working with you, being able to love you – God, being loved _by_ you – that’s my dream.”

“Me as a sentinel, you mean,” Jim replied, looking away.

“Partly, because being a sentinel is part of what and who you are,” Blair affirmed. “But, I didn’t fall in love with the sentinel, Jim. I fell in love with the man; the guy who never gives up, who risks himself every damned day to protect others, the guy who makes me laugh and who makes me feel special and … and wanted. The man who isn’t perfect, but tries damned hard. The guy who … who is my hero, I guess.”

Sighing, Jim rasped quietly, “This hero has clay feet, kid. Don’t make me out to be more than I am.”

“Yeah, well, a marble statue of perfection would be pretty damned cold and boring,” Blair retorted, though his tone was kind. “Look at me, Jim.” When Ellison reluctantly met his steady gaze, he said firmly, “I’m not giving up anything for you. I’m _gaining_ all that I desire. I love you. _You_. Everything you are, even your cold clay feet.”

“My feet aren’t cold,” Jim protested, but a shy smile curved his lips.

“Well, now, that’s a matter of opinion,” Blair asserted, grinning brightly. Eyes sparkling, he went on, “Unusual, I guess, for a bear to have cold feet, I mean. But, on the other hand, for a bear, you’re really not a bad cook, and that makes up for a lot. Guess I’ll just have to keep lots of honey on hand, to keep you sweet-tempered.”

“Smart ass,” Jim growled playfully as he enfolded Blair in a tight bear hug, and rolled so that he was leaning over Sandburg. “Just my luck to fall for a guy who never stops talking,” he groused before leaning down to kiss Blair with gentle passion. Pulling back, he murmured huskily against Blair’s lips, “But, God, I really don’t know how I’d ever live without you.”

“Good thing you won’t ever have to find out,” Blair whispered seductively in return, and then reminded him, “Lifetime warranty, remember? Satisfaction guaranteed.”

 

_Finis_


End file.
